-1Something is scratching its way out
Something you want to forget about
No one expects you to get up
All on your own with no one around

You don't return to work after escaping the beach, a hasty voicemail sent to Naomi as your only contact, informing the center of your absence. You can't face any of them, can't take the snaky comments you've heard coming from Violet, the constant flirting from Pete, and the incessant talking from Dell. You can't look at any of them right now, not when you can't even look at yourself. You quickly turn from the mirror, grabbing a tissue and dabbing at your face, not that it makes any difference. The few tears you manage to wipe away are replaced seconds later, so you give up on trying to rid your face of the streaks that come with tears and mascara.

You begin savagely ripping through boxes you have yet to unpack. Books, pictures, and a myriad of other items now cover the floor of your bedroom and when you fail to find what you're looking for, you grow even more frantic.

You can't see through the tears falling now and your breathing is erratic. You know you packed it, took it from the nightstand which was your hiding place and put it with the things you consider most important. But you've searched through your box of mementos, photos which boast a happy trio on graduation day, a group wedding photo with a suspiciously sad eyed best man standing between you and the groom, but it's not there.

You decide to try and clean up the scattered mess you've created so you bend down and start to place the pictures together when you see the small box peeking from under your bed. You feel relief sweep through you as you move to pull the box close to you.

The shoe box once held a pair of God-awful pumps which you received from Mark for your 30th birthday. You smile as you think about how happy he was with himself when he handed the gift to you and you didn't have the heart to explain to him that expensive doesn't always equal tasteful.

The shoes are long since gone now and you can't remember if they were given to charity or one of Derek's sisters, but you've kept the box for reasons you couldn't understand, organized along with the massive collection of shoes you own, empty.

It isn't empty now and you take a deep breath as you open the box and pull the white piece of cloth out and run your fingers along the embroidered 'NY.' You bring the tiny clothing close to your face and you can almost smell the infant that it was supposed to belong to. Your tears are falling harder now and when you know you've soaked a good portion of the onesie, you return it to it's home in the old shoe box and take out what you've been looking for. You focus hard on the grainy picture, the flimsy medium threatening to crinkle. It's not at all clear and too early for any person to see a thing aside from a small mass, but you can picture the limbs that grow longer, the fingers moving.

You move to the bed now, the sonogram still held tightly in your grasp and allow yourself to fall on the bed. You know it is the thing you regret the most, the moment in your life that you wish you could take back.

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You can't describe the feeling when you sit in the waiting room, a doctor who's job it was to keep infants alive is now going against everything she believes in, wants. You aren't ready, you tell yourself. It won't work out. A baby deserves two happy parents, not a mother who can't stop thinking about a man that has long since forgotten her and a father who can't stay faithful long enough to have a meaningful relationship. You know he slept with Charlene because he noticed the unsigned divorce papers that lay scattered with the newspaper and the rings that you refuse to pry off your finger, but that doesn't matter. You need to believe he'd be a horrible father. He is Mark Sloan after all and thinking that both of you would only ruin a child's life makes it easier, so that when your name is called, you take a deep breath and follow the nurse. Now you've stopped thinking altogether, knowing you will change your mind if given the chance.

You return to the apartment that night and are surprised at the sounds you hear in the kitchen. He's cooking for you and all you can think about is lying down to alleviate the empty queasiness that now fills your stomach.

He greets you then with promises of monogamy and dreams about raising your child and you rush past him and spill the non-existent contents of your body into the toilet. He's beside you the next moment, holding your hair back and laughs about morning sickness lasting all day and it only makes you feel more sick.

When you've finished dry heaving, he offers you saltines and ginger ale and brings you to the couch before pulling out a bag, and your heart falls when he forces you to open what you know you'll never have the need for. The onesie is white with black stripes and you stop breathing when you see the calendar inside as well and you know before you look at it, that he's marked the date.

You can't take it anymore and you carelessly toss the items to the floor. "You slept with someone. This can't work."

"I'll try. I promise. We can do this. We'll work it out. No more nurses. Just us."

"There's no us," You protest. You can't listen to him anymore. You need to be away from him, away from the reminder of what you've done. You walk into the bedroom and start packing. Giving up on order, you simply toss the garments in as fast as you can.

"Addison, stop. We need to talk about this. You can't just leave. We need to talk about the baby."

You immediately cringe at his first use of that word and while you continue to rip clothing out of the closet, so you don't see the look on his face, you tell him. "There's no baby."

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You didn't sleep last night, didn't move. And now you're paying for it with bloodshot eyes and the constant aching in your body.

"What happened to you?"

You don't answer Violet as you fill your coffee cup and simply take it back to your office. You finally have a patient and need to try to make yourself look more presentable. You don't have a chance as Dell bursts into your office with offers of help and a rambling of his abilities.

"No Dell. I don't need you today. I can handle it. Go answer the phone." You sound like a bitch but the last thing you need is his constant pestering and it's already impossible for you to function on your own without another person taking all of your energy.

Mark hasn't called and you're frightened by how much that fact makes you want to cry. You weren't supposed to let these feelings resurface. You convinced yourself that they were buried, that you could start over in California, but as the phone rings and your eyes blur from oncoming tears when you see that it isn't him, you know you've just been fooling yourself.

Your first appointment is smooth, a simple check up on an expectant mother, happily looking at the image of her child on the screen, her hand clasped with her husband's.

It shouldn't hurt so much to see a happy couple. You shouldn't feel a pain in your heart every time you see him place a hand on her stomach and smile. It shouldn't make you sick to hear the bickering over names as they wait for test results.

Everything checks out normal and you give them the good news and send them home with a simple prescription for prenatal vitamins and you're glad when they leave, so that you can drop the smile you've kept on your face.

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You still haven't heard from Mark and you're beginning to think he's back in Seattle. What reason would he have for staying now? It's been five days since the beach and you think God hates you because you've had six appointments, each happily married and ecstatic over the upcoming arrival of their child. You've seen nothing but happy and perfect and you really should be grateful that you haven't had to express bad news to parents or tell a young girl she has gonorrhea, but it doesn't help how you're feeling about your life at the moment to see everything you're missing out on.

Pete has insisted on flirting with you which has varied from light teasing to first grade mocking. You want to scream that you're already in love and don't need a quack of a doctor constantly making passes at you, but admitting is the first step and you can't seem to move your feet towards that.

Instead you roll your eyes when you're asked why you look coked out and tell him you're trying a Lindsay Lohan thing, to which he has no answer, so you're able to walk away and make yourself sleep before your next patient because sleep hasn't been your friend lately and you haven't been able to get more than two hours of sleep a night since you've last seen Mark.

When you enter your office, your phone signals that you have a voicemail and the simple, "Sorry," that you hear when you replay it, is enough to make you smile and when you attempt to sleep this time, it takes only a moment for your eyes to close and your breathing to slow and welcome the much needed slumber.