Trigger warning: abuse, the mention of suicide, mental illness, domestic violence.

Tegan

It has been such a quaint morning. I barely got any comfort in my sleep the previous night. It felt like I was shadowed by nightmares and anxiety. I woke up in sweat, with my heart beating quickly. I felt my daughter kick inside my tummy. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't. I was nauseous, too. I went to the bathroom to take a quick shower. Sara was nowhere in sight, neither was my mother.

I am surprised to see them in the living room, in the same position I left them in the previous night. Except that both clearly seem tired and weary. None of them had a moment's rest as I can see.

As soon as I put my hand on my girlfriend's knees she flinches. Oh, right. Last night I was a bitch.

I apologize, I try to kiss her, but she runs away. I look at my mother for some elaboration, but I receive almost the same reaction. It's as if they are looking at a pariah.

"Did I hurt her that bad?" I ask quietly.

My mother's wide mouth close. I can see her swallowing before opening her mouth again to speak, "Uh, she's just…I…I mean, talk to her."

Honestly, with all the time I have spent with my mother, she has never sounded so helpless. Maybe Sara has revealed things she hasn't told me. Maybe I've been cruel last night. I can't even remember.

I take slow steps to the bathroom as I hear the water running. I turn the knob, open the door and enter. Sara is crying.

"Get out," she says. "Get out, please," she repeats loudly.

"I didn't mean what I said last night." Was it that bad?

"I need to be alone," my girlfriend says.

"Alright." I give up easily, heading towards the kitchen once again.

I spot my mother brewing coffee with tears in her eyes. My curiosity tingles inside me. "Can you tell me what happened?"

My mother looks at me with wide green eyes staring in shock. "Uh…" again, she stutters.

"Sara's not talking. You're not talking. What's up?"

"She's not feeling well. She wants help."

"Again?" I walk closer to her. Her fingers are fidgeting and her lips are quivering. "Is it me?"

"It's her mental state, I guess."

"What is it?" I can feel my daughter's first kick this morning. Can she sense it, too?

"I'm not sure," mother says. "I just feel bad for her. She spent all night crying. I tried my best but it seems bad."

"But there must be something," I didn't know my voice was so quiet until the words left my mouth. "She was just fine."

"She was bottling it up."

"You made her open up?" I ask.

I think I need to sit.

"I guess I did."

"But…"

"Give her time," mum says. "It always worked out that way."

Sara buries herself in our room for the rest of the day. I try my best to speak to her. She does not even want me to touch her. That only explains one thing: she is reliving the past trauma I have caused her.

I have read that a couple of things can be stored in the unconscious and sometimes they are awakened by a sudden memory or a random thought. I'm not sure what happened last night while I was asleep, but it looks like my mother has awakened the sleeping nightmares inside my partner's mind. The only thing I can do is try.

The strangest thing is that whenever I pass by my room while my mother is inside with Sara, I can hear both of them whispering faintly. So Sara is speaking to my mother but is not speaking to me other than the soft, tired words she feels obliged to say to me.

The next few days are exactly a repetition of this one. In fact, they are worse. Sara does not even put coconut butter on my breasts and belly anymore. She does not kiss me nor put a hand on my skin. While we sleep, Sara does not face me. In fact, she does not sleep on the same bed. She chooses the couch. When I call her, she does not pick up, and does not get back in bed beside me.

On the fourth day I have to visit the doctor. Sara does not come with me, so my mother tags along. My baby is fine, but she still does not have a name.

"Still want the home birth?" mother asks me on the way back home.

"Yes."

"What about Sara?" she demands.

"What about her?"

"She's not mentally stable."

"What does that have to do with it?"

My mother sighs.

"You know what's going on but you won't tell me," I state. "I know she tells you everything."

"No," mother responds. "She vents to me because I'm being a therapist to her."

"Is that why you're staying awhile longer?" Sonia nods. "What does she tell you?" She looks at me in a way as if I have asked her if I can murder my baby and give it up to the wolves to feed on. "Mum…"

"She just vents, Tegan. She doesn't say much. I ask yes or no questions about what she is feeling and she vents. She's not feeling good."

"There must be something, mum. There must be some type of diagnosis," I shout.

"She's suffering clinical depression."

"Why?" I shout again, this time while slamming the brakes as I park in my garage.

"No whys," mother yells. "People get depressed, Tegan. There is no reason for it."

No. There is something. I can sense it. I can feel it. I must find it out.

I return to work after a week. Mother is still here. The first day I go back, I face a horrible load of stress and fatigue that I get sent home by Joe against my will in order to rest. When I get home, I don't find anyone. I rest my head on the pillow and lose consciousness.

I don't know how much I spend there but I become conscious again by the voices of sharp wailing. I open my eyes. My girlfriend is crying her eyes out next to me and my mother is comforting her.

"What's wrong?" I scream.

Nobody answers me.

"Mum?"

Mother looks at me with agonized eyes.

"It can't be true," Sara cries. "I'm dreaming. It's a nightmare."

"What can't be true?" I ask.

"I don't know," Sonia says. "She's been like that since this morning. I took her out to get her to feel better but she broke down and I had to drive us back home."

"But what is it that she's talking about?" I touch Sara's arm but I'm pushed aside with an abrupt force that leaves my jaw hanging. "Sa.."

"Don't touch me," she shouts, getting up. "Don't ever touch me," she shouts loudly.

Mother looks horrified with the view. My tears begin to fall.

"I'm losing her again," I mutter.

I spend the worst days through my pregnancy in the next few days, both physically and emotionally. I begin to have strange back aches and discomfort in sleeping and breathing at night. Three days later I faint at work and end up hospitalized for two days. Honestly, I'm not sure what's exactly happening in my body, in my head, or outside of my brain, but I'm simply exhausted that I cannot spend a full hour awake without getting back to sleep.

However, what forces me to stay conscious is the faint whispering I hear my mother and my girlfriend sharing. I hear things like, "It's stress" and "she needs lots of rest." I also hear, "I'm not sure about a home birth, she'll hurt herself." But the thing is, I'm not sure who says what at all. I'm sure both are speaking because the tone of voice changes, but I'm not conscious enough to recognize who's saying what.

"You need to find a solution."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I'm dying. Everyday…I'm dying."

"Choose an option."

"I love her."

"And?"

"It's all your fault."

"It's not. It's going to be yours if you continue hiding."

"Don't say that. I can't take it. I love her."

"Be with her."

"I can't."

"Sara…"

"I can't touch her. She can't touch me."

But why? Why? What is it that she's feeling? Why can't she touch me, why can't she love me? How can I know if I'm being kicked out of her thoughts?

"Life will move on, Sara."

"While I slowly die inside."

"Life will move on."

The baby is fine but I'm not fine, or that's what the doctor says to my mother and girlfriend.

"And?" Sara asks. I am confused by her frightened question. As if she cares, as if she wants to take care of me. My eyes meet hers for a quick second. I spot a shimmer of a tear dancing on her lid. She averts her gaze instantly to look at the doctor.

"Bed rest."

"I have work."

"You need rest," the doctor says. "We're giving you vitamins but you need rest for your health and the baby's. You will have to stay away from salty foods because of your blood pressure. You also have to stay away from caffeine completely."

I spend the rest of the night crying in my bed, refusing to eat or to listen to my mother's calming words. I know I'm hurting myself more than I should have, but just like Sara, I can't take it. Maybe Sara understands more than I do. Actually, I'm sure she does. She does not see nor sense the pain I'm being put in each single day. Whenever she looks away once our eyes connect, I feel sharp pains in my chest. If only she can understand.

When I return to work, I walk as if nothing has happened to me, nothing is happening in my own personal life. My head is held up high and my black and white attire reflects my bossiness. I walk quickly while I hear murmurs declaring, "The bitch is back." I do not care or know who says these things behind my back so I continue walking. I know I have the best team despite them despising the ground I step on; therefore, I do not pay attention to the shit they spew out of their mouths, and they do not care that I listen to it. It's some kind of a relationship that we share. It's trust.

Joe puts the worst smelling flowers in my office. It makes me cough for an hour, brings out my allergies and my nausea. "You fucktard, I'm pregnant."

"What does that have to do with it? Thought these would make you happy."

"My hormones make me angry, never happy. And these flowers are against what my hormones want."

"What do they want?"

"For you to leave me the fuck alone and let me do my work in peace."

My mother calls to check up on me. Sara doesn't call for sure. I call Sara's parents instead. I fill them in. Jessica does not seem surprised to hear that. So I guess they know.

"Give her time," the faintest of voice comes. It's dead, no life in it. "She needs it."

"I'm worried."

"It will be okay." Lies, because that's the driest promise I have ever heard.

When I get back home, Sara confronts me. "Why would you call my mother?" she says sharply.

"I had to. I wanna understand you."

"Goddamn it. That's none of your business. What I'm going through is for me." I slap her. She shrieks.

"Wake up," I scream in her face. "Wake up already. We're having a baby. You can't hide things from me. If you don't wanna be with me, tell me."

She slaps me back instead. It takes all the power inside me not to lay a hand on her again. I close my eyes and count to ten. I can feel my fist cramping from the pressure I'm putting on it by resisting. My chest aches and my baby kicks me harder and harder by the second.

My tears rush out of my eyes as soon as I sit down. I bury my face in my hand and cry. A surprising touch of a hand makes me jump. At first I assume it's my mother awakened by the loud voices, but my eyes are shocked to see Sara's gentle face in front of me. Her soft touch calms me down. She glides her hand all over my tattooed skin as she whimpers in my ears. I feel her lips kissing my jaw. I'm not sure what's happening, but I hurry wrapping my being around this moment before it's over.

"I love you," she announces with tears streaming down her anguished face. "I love you," she repeats as if I haven't heard her. And, honestly, I needed to hear it twice just to make sure I'm not mistaken, because lately it seems that she has stopped loving me.

"What's going on with you?" I ask quietly, gently, with softness in my voice and fire in my heart.

She shakes her head right before she captures my lips in a bittersweet kiss. I taste the saltiness of tears because they won't stop. She kisses more till I am lying underneath her and she is hovering above me, both legs are on the sides. She kisses as if she has not seen me in ages, as if she has missed me dearly. She kisses me as if I am dying and she's trying to suck the life out of my stopping heart.

Kisses end up in lovemaking. She thrusts two fingers inside after kissing my entire body. Her tears; however, never cease. In fact, her cries become louder and out of breath when she goes down on me. When I come, I try to touch her. I expect to be pushed away only because I know my partner very well, but I'm not. She surrenders—she lets me take full control over her body.

"Fuck me hard," she asks, still crying.

"What do you want?"

"Fuck my ass and my cunt."

"Sara," I hesitate. "My mum is in the house."

"Lock the door."

"She'll hear."

"Please."

I cave in to her request, but the problem is that I'm too tired to strap myself and fuck her. She turns around and gets on her hands and knees. I've never seen Sara as raw and without any bashfulness before…perhaps only when we were dying in lust as we masturbated in front of each other years ago.

I fuck her pussy first. She's drenched and easy to enter. It looks disturbing that my belly is that large and I'm fucking my girlfriend. I grab her ass to help with the pushing and pulling. I can see her two breasts dangling down, moving with her. She's biting on one hand to mute her sounds.

Before she comes, I pull out and exchange the dildo in order to fuck her ass. She moans loudly when I enter her. "Are you okay?" I ask. She groans. "Sare…"

"Push." Her voice is chocked, crying, tired—miserable.

Her hand reaches for her clit to rub it. The other tweaks her right nipple. When she comes, she curls up and weeps softly.

I've never witnessed grief and misery on my girlfriend as much as now.

When I leave the room after my quick shower, I find my mother sitting like a stone statue in the living room. She eyes me with a piercing gaze as I gulp my water.

"What?"

"Were you two having sex?"

I don't give her an answer. I'm too shy to respond.

She sighs.

In the following week Sara becomes sadder— sick with fatigue. Her lively face becomes too pale while bags grow beneath her eyes. The more we have sex, the sicker she becomes. I return from work one day to find my mother putting a wet cloth over Sara's forehead.

I sit beside her to check on her. The fever is strong.

"You know she hasn't eaten a meal since three days ago?" mum tells me. I pause and blink. Is that true? For the past three days we have not gotten out of bed. We had so much sex. I went out to eat and she cried after it.

"At all?"

"I want to die," Sara announces.

And it feels like a sharp knife has cut through me and my child.

Flashbacks. Flashbacks.

"I just want to die." I remember it quite clearly. Too clearly in fact.

I call Emy that night but the voice of a friend is masked by that of a stranger. She is cold and angry. Why is everyone so distant?

"I'm losing Sara," I say. "I need help."

She only chuckles.

Then I hear sniffling.

"Are you crying?"

No answer.

"What's happening?"

"Tegan…"

"Yes?"

"You and Sara…"

"What's going on?" She pauses several times and it irritates me.

"Nothing."

"Yes, there is something." I insist impatiently.

"I have to go. Please, take care of her and your baby."

I return home early the day after. Dizziness has gotten the best of me because I've been awake the previous night, trying to calm Sara down.

What I see is the last thing I expected to see; my mother holding a crying, screaming Sara with dozens of pills bottles on the floor next to her. My heart falls to my feet and my baby kicks me too sharply, too fast—as if she can see the disastrous scene that's making my eyes water and my lips tremble.

"She wanted to kill herself," my mother cries loudly, hugging her. "It's all because of me."

I get too dizzy to focus on her words.

Why?

I kneel down, sit next to her. My eyes wide, too wide that I can only notice how small hers are.

Why?

I look around me.

Pills everywhere.

She wanted to kill herself.

Why?

I look at the floor.

Blue, yellow, white, my picture when I was a baby, some medical papers.

My picture.

Two of my pictures.

A DNA test?

I look at her again, shocked.

"You found her?" I ask.

I look down again. I read the papers. I look at my mother's horrified face.

How?

I look at Sara again. My senses are sharp, my breath is heavy. I clutch my fist, ready to aim at my mother but instead, I choose my girlfriend.

"What the fuck is this?" I punch again. My mother is too shocked to stop me, and Sara is too weak to scream. The more I punch, the better I feel, the stronger I suddenly become.

My tears blur my vision, or perhaps it's the lust for hitting. I've never felt more disgusted and capable than I do now.

The following moments are trapped in a cloud of haze to me. I remember nothing but sharp kicking, some screaming, mother pulling me away from Sara, and myself asking if what I understood is real or not.

I wake up in my bed; my father is the first person I spot. My mother is standing far in the corner of my room. No sign of Sara.

Was it a dream?

I sit up like a crazed person when my fetus kicks. I look at my parents with horror wrapped around my features. I don't notice it, but I begin to cry as soon as my father hugs me.

"Is it true?" I ask.

No response.

I look up at his blue eyes and ask again, "Is it true what I understood? How? How is it true?"

He opens his mouth to speak but my mother interrupts him, "It's my fault." I look at her. It can't be. "I've always felt it, sensed it. I never made sure and when I did, I strove to hide it."

I can't even absorb what I am hearing. Put yourself in my shoes. You would go mad at the moment. If I didn't hold all that strength, I would have gotten rid of my baby in one way or another. I'm carrying a person inside me, planning to start a family with…my sister.

"Sara?" I ask.

"It's not her fault," my mother shoots. "You shouldn't have hurt her so bad."

"We have to think of reasonable solutions to this disaster," father says.

Yes, it's a disaster. A catastrophe. We should all kill ourselves.

"How?"

Sally, I know you cannot even comprehend this, and that's only because words fail to deliver truthful emotions; but trust me when I tell you that part, when my parents were filling me in on the ugly truth, was the hardest part in my life alongside giving birth to you knowing I could never call you my daughter.

That day felt like I was tied up by ropes and stabbed by knives, dying and coming back to life just to get stabbed by another sharp knife. The more details my parents revealed, the louder I cried, and the more hurt I felt. You were inside me and all I could think about was how to get rid of you because I knew the life you were going to be in was going to be a living hell. My parents have made a mistake and it's following us till this day, and yet you still blame me and Sara for what you are going through.

Sara's face is swollen, scratched, and bloody. When our eyes meet, I feel shame carved in my chest. Once again, I have touched her in an abusive way. I have broken my promise, but this time I feel less shame because I realized she has let me fuck her while knowing I am her sister.

"We can either imagine as if this hadn't happened and you two continue living your lives the same way you are living it right now or we can…"

"Everybody knows," Sara says quietly, in a broken voice. "I told my mother and Emy. It was killing me."

"We can never be together," I shout. "I am repulsed. So disgusted." I begin to cry again. "You took advantage of me. All of you."

Sara cries, too. I know the salty tears are stinging her scarred face because I can see her wincing. I hope she feels every burn she is making me suffer at this moment.

"I'm sorry," Sara utters. "I love you."

"I hate you," I respond immediately.

At this moment, I'll be lying if I say I don't hate her a little bit. She put her hands on me. She put her mouth on my lips and my skin and she knew I was her sister. How can I live with this disaster?

"My daughter will suffer for the rest of her life. Just like me."

"She's mine, too."

"If you're not planning to be together, I think you should give her up for adoption," my dad says.

"No," Sara screams. "No," she yells at him. "Won't you ever learn from this mistake? That's where adoption has gotten us. That's the mistake you have done. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Don't talk to my father like that." I slap her bruised face.

"Tegan," my mother shouts, "stop."

"I'm giving her up for adoption," I say, facing Sara with sharp eyes. "I'm not raising a kid alone. I'm not going to make her go through what I went through. She'll ask questions, she'll want to know."

"No." Sara shakes her head with tears streaming down her face. "No, please. I'll take her. I'll adopt her. I'll pretend she's mine. I'll go away. I'll leave you. I'll…I don't know. I need her. She'll suffer like me. I know she will. She'll look for her parents and she'll find out."

The sight that makes my heart sink is when my mother holds Sara in her arms to calm her down. I know this feeling, I can feel it. I can feel it because the fetus inside my belly is showering me with misery. My mouth is spewing words I cannot handle; my mind is trying to weave up solutions that make me a winner in this losing game, my heart is crushing on its self. I feel the hatred and the love all at once. I feel my inside death.

We stay like this for days, cooking up solutions and reasons. Sara loses strength and vigor in front of my eyes as she refuses to eat, to speak, to move, or to function. Everything makes sense now. All these past actions, all the misery, all the crying; all of these years make sense now. She has always known it, sensed it, felt it. The more I think of it, the more I despise the times we have touched, the videos we have recorded, the love we have made, the games we have played, the threesomes, the kisses, the touches. God, how awful is this disaster. How strange, how ironic, how unrealistic.

I stop being able to go to work because of the grief and anguish that hit me. I hear Sara's howling cries all night long. I leave the room and find her alone in the nursery; praying, hoping, and crying. The closer I get the worse I feel. I almost hit her each night but I stop myself. I cannot take what I'm holding inside; I cannot stand the woman outside of my room.

"If I don't die, I won't rest," I tell my mother one day. She scolds me for sure. I don't even need to narrate the words she fills my brain with. She's a mother, hearing that both her daughters want to die because of her kills her.

My father makes us sit in the living room one evening after he gets back from work (he goes instead of me right now. He said he'd go until I get back on my feet, but I doubt I ever will). I sit as far away as possible from Sara, father beside me and mother by her side.

"We have to find a solution," dad says.

"She has to leave," I say.

"I'm not leaving without the baby," she says sharply.

"Take the baby," I say.

"What?"

"Take her."

No response. I put my hand on top of my belly before releasing words I'm not confident in.

"Take the baby. You have to go, though. Go away. I don't want to see you, ever. Go back to Vancouver. People barely know we were together. They actually thought we were related when we were in college. Go find a place for you. Or go to Toronto, I don't care. Go away. I don't want to hear from you."

"Tegan," my mother interrupts.

"Listen to me," I say loudly. "Go, Sara. I'll go back with mum, say you have died or something. Well, family already knows about this disaster, other than that nobody knows we're together. We have to leave New York, however. People can't know."

"I don't get it," Sara whispers.

"I'll give birth in the house. We'll do the same trick mother did. The baby will be recorded under your name. I mean, we'll find a way, I'm sure we can. The baby will be yours on paper. Nobody will know, you know. You'll take her and go back. We're sisters but we barely see each other, that's what you'll tell her, so I'll be her aunt. Nobody will know except our close friends and family. Whoever asks you, you'll say you got dumped, you got left, you had a baby on your own…whatever lie you want to make. But I don't want to see you here at all," I say. "Never," I lie.