The Lower London Shelter
Chapter Two
After a good twenty minutes, I rose from the dirty floor of the bathroom. Quietly, I dressed in the clothes I had cast aside earlier, folding the ones I had been wearing, because I had to wear them again tomorrow.
In the shelter, we were each given two sets of clothing. We alternated between them, wearing them every other day for two weeks, and then they were washed, one on Saturday, one on Sunday, as not to upset the balance of things. I tugged the shirt, which was far too small, over my stomach and winced, feeling a slight kicking inside, as if someone was punching me. I sat once again on the floor and breathed deeply, relaxing as to soothe the baby inside me.
I was about seventeen years old, or so I had been told, and 5 months pregnant. I had no idea who I was, or where I was, or anything about the horrid man who had gotten me into this position. The other women in the shelter talked about me often, and from this, I had found out what I knew. I was a popular subject for gossip in the shelter, most of the women were far older than I and in far less tragic situations. I quietly rose, the baby quieted at last, and unlatched the stall door, stepping out into the now very crowded bathroom.
Instantly a group of older women near the sinks hushed. I knew they had been talking about me, everyone seemed to be. Perhaps what they were saying was true. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or, most likely of all, perhaps I was losing my mind, living in a world of delirium and paranoia. Yes, I thought to myself, this was obviously the more probable answer.
Quietly I walked past them, my head held high. I tried to look confident, brave, even, but I knew I wasn't doing a good job of it. The women stared at me, whispering. My expression faltered. I had no idea why they hated me so, but I was determined not to let them know it upset me. As I walked toward the door, it suddenly swung open, hitting me head-on. I fell to the cold floor in a heap.