I drop the test on the floor and look at myself in the mirror, still sitting on the floor. There is no way this is happening.

About three months ago, I was taken to an alley after walking out of the grocery store, and beaten before being raped. My psychiatrist said noticed a sudden mood change and often random mood swings from me. Aside from that, I was supposed to have my period two weeks ago. My period is never late, nor have I ever skipped one but once in my early teen years. He suggested I get a pregnancy test, which I did since he tends to give the best advice of anyone in my life. My mother is dead; she was killed in a car crash when I was fifteen. My dad was never really there for me anyway, especially after the crash. From then on my father was forced to be my primary caretaker, not that it mattered to him. I had to go into the foster system when he got put in jail when I was sixteen. When my mother died he'd become an alcoholic. It was a downward spiral from there, he started driving and going to work drunk. One time he hit somebody while driving drunk and was arrested. Luckily that person didn't die, so he was only jailed for a few years. And the only person that knows he used to beat me when drunk is my psychiatrist. Anyway, I only had to be in the foster parent situation until I was eighteen or until he was released. I chose to be in a home until I was eighteen. He tried to contact me when he was released, two years ago, but I declined every call. When he followed me to my penthouse, I called the police. Now I have a restraining order so he can't be within five hundred feet of me. At the court when I was getting the restraining order, I'd told him to get far away from me and never come back. I heard that he moved to some other state without telling anybody. They'd only guessed he moved because he had boxes one day, and left without coming back. To be honest, I wish he'd kill himself. He royally fucked up my childhood, which lead to a royally fucked up life.

I look down at the positive test, and will it to change. Nothing happens. I hate that I don't know who did this to me. I hate that there won't be anyone there for me when I am forced to give birth since I'm not cruel enough to get an abortion. I hate that I'll be stuck with a criminal's child. I'll be stuck with the child of someone who made me consider suicide. I'll be stuck with it because I know how horrible it is to know that your parent didn't want you or care for you.

The only thing I know to do is to go to Dr. Eaton, my psychiatrist. He gave me his address quite a while ago when I was still having panic attacks. I think I might have one now. Several times I have tried to get to him while I was having panic attacks, and it never ends well, so I choose to stay here this time, at least until I calm down. I am now twenty-two, so I've had around four years to figure out life on my own. This includes cooking, cleaning, and budgeting. I head to the kitchen and get out the cutting board, a knife, and vegetables. Turning on the kitchen TV, I wash the vegetables in the sink and watch the news. I cut the vegetables as I listen to everything currently happening in New York, mainly Manhattan, where I live. My apartment is in the upper left side of Manhattan, in the Riverside South neighborhood. It overlooks the Hudson River and Riverside Park. The luxury penthouse is more than I need, but I have so much money I don't know what to do with it. A good portion goes to the rent and Dr. Eaton, and a little less to groceries. Groceries don't cost much since I'm the only one living here and I eat like a bird. My regular doctor says that's because when I was depressed my stomach shrunk from my barely eating.

I finish cutting the vegetables and grab the lettuce from the fridge and a bowl from a cabinet. Throwing everything together, I put the lid on the bowl and shake it a little to be sure it is fully mixed. Then I fill a bottle with water and set it on the counter next to the salad. My acrylic nails tap the counter as I try to figure out what to do. I need to speak with Dr. Eaton, but I'd rather not go to his house and risk having another episode in public. I decide to call him and invite him here. Maybe we could talk over dinner. Dialing his number, I think about what I'll make if he comes. Maybe spaghetti, or chicken breast and some vegetable.

"Dr. Eaton speaking," he answers, and I hear noise in the background.

"Hi Dr. Eaton, it's me, Beatrice Prior."

"Oh, hi Beatrice. Did you get a test?" He asks, quieting a little.

"Yes, I did," I try to think whether I want to tell him over the phone or not, deciding not. "Would you mind coming over for dinner? I can prepare something."

"I'd love to, but tonight is the night my son and I usually spend together since most nights he works right now."

"Oh well, he could come too."

"Alright, I'll check with him, just a moment…ok, we'll be over in about twenty minutes."

"I'll be making dinner so you can let yourself in." He agrees and we say our goodbyes. As soon as I hang up I realize that I didn't check with him to see what he wants. I guess I'll have to wait till they get here to ask and start cooking.

I walk over to the window that surrounds my grand piano, looking out over Manhattan and the Hudson River. It is a beautiful view that I wouldn't trade for anything, at least at this point in my life. I decide to play piano, in hopes it will help me forget, or at least calm down…it is pretty hard to forget you're pregnant…with a rapist's kid, especially. Sitting down on the bench, I look through all the sheet music sitting on the piano top. It doesn't take long for me to pick the song Clocks by Coldplay. My fingers caress the smooth, white and black keys, enjoying the feeling. Playing piano and guitar always helps when I'm stressed. I finish the song and hear somebody clear their throat behind me, making me jump. I turn around and find Dr. Eaton and-who I'm guessing is-his son next to him. I take a deep breath and stand up to go greet them.