I stared in shock at the ribbons of plastic. It can't be true. I can't be pregnant. I just can't. It's not possible. Oh, but it is. The three tests that are all positive are enough proof. But that doesn't mean I wanted it to be true.
I walked out to my parents, who were sitting in the living room. They both turned to me. I can tell they already know what I'm going to say, but they're still curious about how I'm taking it all in. The only thing I can say is: "I've seen enough red ribbons of plastic to last me three lifetimes."
Mom gave me a sympathetic smile, much like the Wal-Mart counter lady's ,and pulled me into a tight hug. I may not be one for hugging, especially after my 'incident', but when she hugged me, I wrap my arms around her and hug her fiercely back, crying into her shoulder. My dad stood up to join in our little hug fest. It's a perfect Kodak Moment: A family huddled together, the young teen's face streaked with tears, whether of joy or sorrow, the viewer may never know.
After that little emotional scene, over the next few weeks, I sort of shut down. I wouldn't go outside, or even go out of my room much. I wouldn't sleep, I wouldn't talk, or eat. Well, not around my parents. Every night, I would walk down to the kitchen, and make a couple small sandwiches. But nothing that was too noticeable. Then, I'd go back up to my room and play Solitaire until somebody else woke up.
And, I started to look like I was getting fatter around my abdomen, even though I was eating a lot less. Aunt Flo didn't visit this month either. Crap.
Today was when I decided to talk again. I'd gotten tired of not speaking at all.
"Honey, you need to get up," my mom said. I'd been laying on my bed for the past hour.
"I don't want to. I'm tired."
"Today you have to go to court and testify about your 'incident'."I have to do what? No. I will not go to Court.
"WHAT! You never told me that!"
"Actually, we did. You just never listened. Be ready in a half hour."
We went to the courthouse, sat down in our designated places. Jay was there, in handcuffs, a police officer standing behind him. During the time I testified, his lawyer and my attourney argueing, and him pleading guilty, Jay's eyes never left me. I could feel them on me. There was more talking, and the jury left to debate. They came back into the courtroom, announced that he had five years of prison time, plus a fine of some amount. He deserved more, in my opinion.
After we were dismissed, nobody said anything. They walked Jay out, still in his handcuffs, and when he passed our table and looked me in the eyes, I realized something. I take back what I had though at the station, about feeling bad about telling them it was Jay. He deserves every single minute he's going to serve in prison. He deserves more than that. I hate him. I hate him for what he did to me. I hate him for hurting me. I. Hate. Him.
It's been a hard month. Even after the day at court, I was still high-strung. It was just like before. No sleeping, minimal eating (though my 'minimal' wasn't as small anymore), no seeing the sun's rays. But now, I was only thinking about one thing:What about the baby continually growing inside me?
My stomach's grown a little bigger; I just look a little chubby right now. But we all know it's not excess fat.
Yesterday, we'd called all our family and friends to tell them the news, both about my pregnancy and Jay's sentence. Only a few were supportive of me. None were related. I don't know about you, but it hurts, hard, when almost your whole family looks down on you because of something you couldn't control. And, they all said the same thing, in one way or another. Get an Abortion.
That's what's plaguing my mind at the time. Whether or not I should get an abortion. It would be quick, easy, and pretty painless. But only physically. I could tell, just thinking about it, that it would hurt to kill my child. They may not have been purposely conceived, but they exist now, whoever they are. It's weird calling it "My child". But they are. My parents asked me about 'my child' after dinner one night.
"Honey, we need to talk."
"If it's about having me go see a therapist, I'm not going. One, I'm not going to talk about my feelings to some stranger, and two, their name spells 'The rapist'. Are you sure that's good for me?" I asked with a huge hint of sarcasm.
"No, it's not about you. It's about the baby."
"…Oh. Well, go on."
"Well, did you ever think about having an abortion?" My dad asked me.
"I've thought about it, and decided not to." That's right. I'm not going to have an abortion. I may not ever forgive it's father for what he did to me, but I'll still have it. It deserves to live it's life.
"But, honey: You're not ready yet. You don't want a child. You don't know how to take care of one. An abortion will be quick, painless. We know how you feel about hurting people. Well, the baby won't feel it. It'll be painless, for both you and them." What did they say? How could my parents be such hypocrites?
"You know what? I'm going to tell you what I've been told for the past three years by my parents, who seem to have been taken and replaced by two hypocrites: 'Abortion is just a fancy name for murder.' And I'm not going to murder. I will not murder the guy who did this to me, I will not murder my friends or family that look down on my because of something that I couldn't control, and I will not murder my child." With that, I walked up to my room, my parents still sitting on the couch in shock.
