Disclaimer: don't own.
It is the worst possible type of night – when smothering, humid heat lies low over southern California, so that the slightest movement makes you drip with sweat; when dark clouds hover, always on the cusp of raining but never quite getting there, as if they were deliberately taunting you with the prospect of relief denied.
As you open the window, you are immediately assailed by the sounds and smells with which you have come to associate this neighborhood. Pot smoke. Garbage on the sidewalks. Angry shouts and scuffles; police sirens, ambulance sirens. You and your unborn child are not safe here, but what can you do? In a fit of pique, you informed your parents, in no uncertain terms, that you would support the child on your own, and you didn't want their help, or even their roof over your head. Unfortunately, dipping French fries in grease all day long is no better for the pocketbook than it is for the complexion. You could call them, admit your mistake, come crawling back; they're good people, they would forgive you. But pride, the enemy of all reason, won't allow it. And you can be certain no help will be forthcoming from the father of your child – whoever that may be.
Ryder. Handsome, charming Ryder. Ever since Tori exposed him publicly as a serial user, he's been a pariah; no self-respecting girl will even come near him. How fortunate for him, then, that you have no self-respect. You only wanted one night of comfort; you weren't upset, or even surprised, when he thrust you from his arms in the morning, telling you that you were "a pretty good lay, but that's all."
Danny. You feel genuine pity for Danny. He had never really gotten over Cat, and when the news reached him of her engagement to Robbie, he turned to the bottle. You ran into him at a party; he told you that you were beautiful, an angel. You knew perfectly well that it was the liquor talking; you didn't give a damn. Two weeks later, when he wrapped his car around a tree, you went to the funeral, even though you hate wearing black and having to stand still and quiet for a long time.
Jonathan. The man who promised you that most beautiful of all mirages, the "big break". He was older, and you like older men, especially ones who give off an aura of success. So what if there was a certain quid pro quo involved? You're not as naïve as people think; you know that making it in show business always comes with a price. So you paid it, and afterward he handed you his card, and kissed you on the cheek, and promised that he'll call you soon with a part in a Steven Soderbergh movie; and you never heard from him again. Surprise, surprise.
Any one of them might be the father. You have no way to tell, short of a DNA test, and that you can't afford. You don't even have the money for a sonogram to determine the baby's sex. In lieu of prenatal vitamins, you're reduced to Flintstone Chewables that you buy when you can, swipe when you can't, from the local Walgreens. You visit the community health clinic every two weeks; the harried nurses have almost no time to devote to you, probably couldn't remember your name if you asked them, but they do their best.
The child kicks within you, and you are annoyed. You hate yourself for being annoyed; you want so desperately to feel the maternal instincts that are supposed to be natural to women in your condition. But the habits of a lifetime spent in self-absorption are hard to break. This creature in your belly feels like an alien parasite that has hijacked your body, deliberately seeking to ruin your life, to steal your once promising future.
You would never have an abortion; your Catholic upbringing still exerts a strong influence over you, even though you've long since ceased to attend church. But you don't think that you can keep and raise the child, either. When it emerges from you, wracking you with pain, you will lie back and watch as it is placed in the arms of others, those who will love it and care for it as you could not possibly do.
Until then, you wait. You slave away at work, stagger home and collapse into troubled sleep on a dingy little cot, day after day after day. And sometimes, when the mask slips, you weep. You weep for dreams lost, for hope shattered, for a child who will never know his mother.
Trina Vega, this is your life.