Misoprostol
It was twenty minutes past three; her watch informed her so, ticking quietly on the edge of the sink where she'd set it down. It was the only noise in the tiny washroom, and her ears locked onto the sound even when she tried to block it out.
It'd been over three hours since she'd taken the second medication, and she was starting to feel nauseous. The cramps were also taking hold, and she wasn't quite sure that she could keep down any retching. Shutting her eyes, she rested her head back against the bathroom wall. She would stay close to the toilet, just in case.
Ema would be home soon.
The nearest parking spot was two blocks down the road from the clinic. She silently cursed her luck and locked her car, heading briskly down the sidewalk. She briefly considered putting on her sunglasses, but it wasn't a particularly sunny day and there was such a seedy feel to the whole thing already; she didn't want to make it worse.
A small huddle of picketers came into view once she rounded the corner of the street. They were circled around the building's doors—not a big crowd, only four or five people. Three of them were holding signs. There was a middle-aged woman standing beside two young children, and when she approached the clinic and the crowd saw she was intending to go in, the woman stepped up and stood in her way.
"All I'm asking you to do is reconsider. There's a life growing inside you right now."
She kept her face neutral and didn't respond other than moving off to the side. One of the kids was blocking her way too, though—a boy of about six, with sandy brown hair. He looked up at her with genuinely sad eyes.
"Why would you want to get rid of me?"
The thought rose in her mind that he was roughly Ema's age, when she had first taken custody of her sister. She didn't reply to him, either—just brushed past him, the woman, and walked onward to the clinic doors. From behind, one of the rowdier picketers called after her.
"Baby killer! Should have thought things through before you'd done it!"
She was thankful none of them recognized her face.
She felt a lurch in her stomach and automatically brought her head to the toilet bowl even before she started retching. Her insides spasmed, trying to heave up something that wasn't there. The sound she made was awful, even to her ears.
She kept her head there for a moment after she'd stopped heaving, just to be certain it was over. Then, she coughed into her hand, spat into the toilet and flushed it. When the bathroom fell quiet again, she took her place up against the wall once more and listened to the ticking of her watch.
She placed the empty wrapper over the stick, not wanting to look at the results until it was fully ready. There was still a chance she was mistaken. It could still all be paranoia.
She'd gone to the pharmacy and bought the emergency contraception pill the very night it had occurred. The pharmacist had looked at her warily—had she walked strangely up to the counter?—but had not voiced any objection, merely handing over the paper bag with her purchase and accepting the cash she was given.
After taking it and putting up with the requisite nausea, she had booked an appointment with her doctor. When the appointment came, she'd managed to bluff her way through the visit and get a prescription for birth control pills. Then, she tried to put all of it entirely out of mind.
The days passed. When she first started feeling soreness, she'd dismissed it.
Her period didn't come on the expected date, but she reasoned it could possibly be due to stress. That could have been the reason for her exhaustion as well.
It wasn't until she'd woken up a few days afterwards, to a wave of sickness that sent her rushing to the washroom, that she'd finally confronted her fears and gone back to the pharmacy to buy the test. And here she was now, staring at a wrapper that covered a plastic stick bearing information she dreaded to see.
Glancing down at her watch, she noted it'd been nearly five minutes since she'd used it. She took off the wrapper covering the test stick, picked the item up, and read the results. Then she disposed of it and its wrapping, closed her eyes and kept in any possible sound.
The double beep of the security system chimed into her consciousness, alerting her that the front door had been opened. So, Ema was home now. She could hear the faint steps as her sister made her way into the house.
Given how they were these days, she was fairly sure that even if Ema was aware she was home, her sister wouldn't come up to find her. She would have to be quieter though, if she needed to vomit again.
She was feeling feverish now, and between her legs she could feel a growing dampness. She'd have to change pads soon.
"Come here."
She stepped around the large mahogany desk, coming to a stop in front of his chair. They were done for the evening—there was no more news to report, no more instructions to be delivered. There were no pieces of rather dubious evidence that had to be transferred into her hands, to be delivered to her various prosecutors. As he pushed back his chair and stood up, she wondered briefly why she had been called over.
She didn't have long to ruminate—he reached to her and his gloved hand came down on the back of her neck, shoving her roughly towards the edge of his desk. She stumbled and stopped her fall with her hands against the table's surface, but as she struggled to rise he used the full weight of his body to press her down. She must have still been in a state of shock—when he reached up her skirt, between her legs, she'd raised her foot and brought her heel down hard against his shin. He muttered a curse, but even in his pain he'd kept hold.
Then the jarring awareness of just who it was on top of her sank in, and with a numbing horror she stopped her struggling. Sensing this, the man holding her down relaxed his grip, and took his time to recover before hiking up her dress again. As he moved to unzip his pants, he leaned his head down to hers so she could meet his bemused green eyes.
"Would you like me to stop?"
He was smiling, though his voice was a quiet growl. There was an implicit warning there, in the question. She struggled to look away, and then to respond.
"No. Please go on."
He laughed, and proceeded to do just that.
She held still and bit down on her lip so hard it drew blood; held still and shut her eyes and tried to think of anything but what was going on, the breath on her cheek and the mouth at her ear and the hands that groped her body. He wasn't gentle, and he didn't wait to force his way into her.
She was tense and it tore. He didn't stop. She struggled to keep in a scream, but he didn't stop. Even when her pain diminished into a quivering guilt he kept going, and he kept going until his final hard thrusts, the halt of his breath accompanied by a grunt of satisfied release.
She was only vaguely aware of him patting her head where it lay against his desk. Then there was the sound of his steps fading off, and the click of the door as he exited the room and left her there alone in the office.
He had used no protection.
Of course. It was her job to clean things up.
"Lana?"
She wasn't quite sure whether she'd been dozing or if the feverish chills and the nausea had caused her mind to finally blank, but her sister's voice brought her back into awareness. Opening her eyes, she glanced over to the gap of the doorway where Ema's head was peeping through.
"What is it?"
The door opened fully, though Ema didn't step in—she kept her feet behind the edge of the tile, almost as though she were afraid of passing the threshold. Perhaps she was afraid of being reprimanded. It was an understandable fear.
"Are you okay? Why are you just sitting here in the washroom?"
"I'm fine." Though she didn't entirely intend it to, her voice came out snappish and forced. She struggled for something else to say, and this time the coldness was intentional. "Don't you have homework to do?"
Her sister winced, but something must have been off in her voice—Ema didn't snap back or run off and cry, instead choosing to come into the room. She shut her eyes in response, but could hear her sister stoop down beside her, could feel her small hand placed against her knee. She finally opened her eyes and met Ema's worried gaze.
"Lana? Feel better, okay?"
Her sister's expression was heart-wrenching. Though her arms were shaking, she reached out and pulled the girl close, held her tightly in her arms. She would have to be strong for her.
"Alright."
Though she could still feel a hint of nausea, she let go of her sister and struggled to her feet. She managed a tight smile—she was grateful, she really was—but avoided meeting Ema's eyes again. She couldn't take that troubled, confused look right now.
Stepping to the door and opening it fully, she made sure her voice was steady before she spoke again.
"Come on—I'll make you dinner."