~6~

~Chapter Six~

A teenage bride with a baby inside
Getting high on information
And buy me a star on the boulevard
It's Californication

~Red Hot Chili Peppers, Californication~

Everything has gotten progressively worse.

Each day is another battle. I fight against the desperation I feel when my alarm goes off, try to withstand the assault brought on by thought of eating, and struggle to keep afloat when it comes to my A.P. courses.

I look like a shell of a person. A fact I'm reminded of as soon as I step in front of the mirror. The bags under my—now dull—green eyes have bags; my hair has been such a nuisance lately that I chose to style it a bit shorter (the stares and worried remarks from Care and Elena became way too tiresome to deflect). That doesn't even touch the bloating I've noticed in my face and mid-section, which I assume is from stress.

I miss the Bonnie who could handle everything, the Bonnie who never let her problems take over her life, the Bonnie who Grams would refer to as her pride and joy—a living reflection of Shelia Bennett's younger years.

And it scares me.

What if the old me never comes back? What if I go through the motions of the life my parents wanted for me? Is this my future? Will I just turn into someone who lives to fulfill everyone else's goals?

My mind, gut, and heart are all in agreement about this one. In short, yes. I know that if I just do whatever my family and friends want; I will lose all the agency I have always been so proud of.

I splash my face with cold water and breathe in deeply. Tonight, is the school-sanctioned dance and Tyler's excuse for getting drunk and doing God knows what. Tonight, is the first date where Enzo and I will be a couple in the eyes of our peers.

That last part should make me happy. I like Enzo. A lot. I just don't have the energy to act like it. And I need to do my best on that front. Enzo's pretty excited about this evening and he's been so understanding that I feel I owe it to be the Bonnie I was with Damon.

The fun girl. The sharp-witted girl. The girl who is relaxed and up for just about anything—even before the bourbon was a factor. He deserves to see me at my best.

So, I'll have to soldier through this endless chaos that I'll witness later, I'll have to at least pretend that I've got it in me to let go. There shouldn't be too much difference between doing and feeling. It also stands to reason that if one does something long enough, they will actually begin to enjoy it.

Conditioning.

I'll condition myself to like attending get-togethers like Tyler's.

It sounds kind of dumb when I put it in those terms, but at least there's some scientific research saying it might work. Pathetic yet doable.

After I finish washing my face, I step into the shower.

I jump as the cold water hits my back, relieved when I start to feel awake and alert. Several cans of soda, thermoses of coffee, and a five-hour energy will hopefully aid me in maintaining consciousness until my head hits my pillow around midnight.

Because there's no way I'm going to let Caroline tell me we should stay out later. Also, I plan on stopping Elena's pitiful protests to Stefan before they start. The ones that begin with but Steffykins, the party isn't over yet and end in her either puking on her own shoes or on the side of the road after I've driven halfway to her house—a fifteen minute drive in heavy traffic; an eight minute drive in the middle of the night.

See? That's an awesome plan. Decent bedtime, here I come.

I dress in a flowy t-shirt and a pair of leggings that used to be a little loose around my hips. The water I'm retaining has made wearing jeans a bothersome task. And lately, that seems to be extending to skirts and dresses with zippers and little give. Shorts with everything but elastic waistbands are a no-go as well.

I never thought I'd miss having wardrobe choices until they became limited.

The sky outside is no longer the in-between shade of dark blue before the sun rises. My wall clock (which used to be in Grams living room and is made to look like a sun dial) is ticking away, inching toward the six-thirty marker faster than I'm used to.

Time to go.

The rest of the house is empty. Mom and Dad left about forty minutes prior; their daily memo taped to the fridge instead of on the coffee table in the other room. I'm a bit surprised to see that this note doesn't have any appointments listed on it. Instead it reads:

Don't forget breakfast, Bonnie Bear. We have peanut butter breakfast bars in the pantry. We love you and we hope you have fun at the dance!
-Mom and Dad

Wow. I don't know what to think about their message at first. The fact that they saw that my box of cereal is unopened is unexpected. They must have also picked up the snack bars at the grocery store because I haven't bought them in months. They wanted to make sure I could eat while heading to school or packing my book bag. It's… sweet. Love in the Bennett household is expressed through words for the most part. Actions—like this one—are few and far between.

And I'm used to it—words have meaning for a reason—I know they care. It's why they work so hard, why they push me in certain directions academically, but their thoughtfulness makes my eyes misty.

I mean, they even remembered that I would be gone for the night. Their schedules are so jam-packed that, even when they know I have an appointment or cheerleading practice, they always get mixed up on the days and times.

I stick the Post-It inside one of my folders and throw three peanut butter granola bars in my tote bag. All my standing around has taken up any time I actually had to eat, so I'd have to do so during my fifteen-minute commute.

And it's with this renewed sense of happiness that I begin the more difficult aspects of my day.

Sadly, it only lasts until I stop by my locker on my way to anatomy.

What were you thinking, Bennett?

My good mood hangs on until I read the day-planning app I have downloaded onto my phone. I haven't utilized it in a while—in fact, I had been so overwhelmed that I turned off the notifications when the constant beeping rung in my ears long after it actually stopped.

I only decided to check it today because I thought it might help me feel more prepared, that I could take the demands of my schedule in stride.

Well, I had been wrong. So very and totally wrong.

It doesn't happen all that often—until lately. But by God, when I make a mistake, it's a big one. An error so colossal that my entire future explodes in front of me like a bomb. You know, like the stock footage they use on sitcoms to illustrate how the main character ruins everything.

Except the feeling is magnified at least ten times.

My reminders are as follows:

Turn in thesis statement for English
Math homework due on Monday
Meet Care/Elena for dance party prep
End of summer bash at five
Party at eight

That is fine. I knew I'd find those activities somewhere on my calendar. What I wasn't prepared to see is located in the section titled missed events.

Period.

My stomach falls to my feet and I have to grab my locker door to keep myself from collapsing on the tiled floor. My mouth is dry, a giant lump lodged in my throat. I missed my period. I don't click on the icon for more details. With my hand shaking uncontrollably, I toss my cell into my locker. Maybe if I can make the vehicle for my stressors go away, then the stressors themselves are not real.

Except that's not how problems are solved.

I close my eyes, attempt to rationalize myself out of the trouble I have gotten myself into. That Damon helped me get into.

It's just over-exertion. That can cause amenorrhea. Stress and over-exercising. Doing flips and tricks aren't as easy as they had been. I'm overdoing it. That's all.

Only that doesn't account for the puking, strange appetite, and weight gain. Though it could be delayed PMS-induced bloating…

I'm sure if I tried hard enough, I could explain those symptoms away, too. But deep down, I know that lying to myself won't do any good. I know why Mother Nature has allowed me to forgo the cramps, the bleeding, and need to stock up on tampons and chocolate bars.

I'm pregnant.

I immediately scold myself. You think. Right now, it's nothing more than an educated guess, a nightmare you can still wake up from.

My body starts to go numb.

Before I know what I'm doing, I am standing in front of the door leading to the nurse's office. My plan, though I haven't truly thought everything through, is simple: get sent home (using bad cramps as my excuse) and go to the drug store. Procure a test, drink a gallon of Sunny-D, ala the opening scenes of Juno, and pee on said test.

And get a negative result.

Easy. Doable—I hope.

But hope doesn't solve problems either.

I return to a vacant home, something I've never been so relieved about before. The couch cushions are as perfect as the day my mom purchased it, the blank television that reminds me of a store model, the quiet yellow kitchen with a spotless sink and an open box of granola bars on the table.

If it weren't for the snack bars I left out, it would look like no one lived here. Like an abandoned castle straight out of a Scooby-Doo episode, minus the dust and cobwebs.

I sigh and take my purchase into the bathroom.

My mother has always been big on themes. Whenever she feels like changing any room in the house, she selects the most outrageous ideas to build upon. One day, she saw this small treasure chest at the furniture store and decided to make a sunken ship the design scheme for the upstairs bathroom. The shower curtain is covered in fish and the walls are painted a deep blue.

I've always hated the design, but now it seems totally appropriate.

A shipwreck.

The entire remainder of my life may very well rest on these little wands—and it will most likely be a negative (or in this case, positive) result.

I take all three tests out of the bag. Each one cost me about fifteen dollars—which pretty much left me with about five bucks in my wallet. I shudder to think about how much more money I'll have to spend if all three of these things turn out to be positive.

One by one, I tear each package open and follow the directions, acting on each step carefully.

The instructions tell me to wait five minutes for each of them, so I set the timer for four and go to my room, flopping face-down on my bed, resisting the urge to scream into my throw pillows.

I take several deep breaths. And then the alarm on my phone goes off, filling my bedroom with the instrumental version of Hallelujah .

It feels like I'm walking to my death as I proceed to go into the bathroom and peer over the sink, where three pregnancy tests lie.

A plus sign.

Positive.

Pregnant.

I pick up each stick and stare at it in complete shock.

This can't be happening. It doesn't add up... I only had sex once! One time! I shouldn't be pregnant, I think before I act, I don't make giant mistakes like this... I stopped thinking for one second and the worst possible thing occurs.

I'm having a baby—Damon Salvatore's baby.

And I'm now officially scared.

I press my hand to my stomach... oh God... what the hell am I going to do? I don't have a good answer. My mind is reeling, the bathroom a cage. My fingers slacken and each wand hits the hardwood flooring, all of them landing in different spots.

I try to keep all of the potential scenarios out of my head as I get off the floor and collect the pregnancy tests from the various places they fell when I dropped them. One had been on the rug, another had gone by the door, and the third had slid between the toilet and the sink.

My attempts aren't good enough, though. The last several hours play in slow-motion as each stick hits the bottom of the trashcan.

The note on the fridge, the alert on my phone, shopping for pregnancy tests, Damon.

~~X~~

Damon.

I had seen him at the CVS—even though school hadn't let out yet. I was coming out of the family planning aisle and he was headed in the opposite direction—to the pharmacy. I immediately shoved the basket of pregnancy tests behind my back and held my breath, praying that he didn't notice me or what I was going to buy.

He didn't look my way.

I hurried over to the checkout line and booked it out of there so fast that it felt like my heart was going to explode from exertion.

~~X~~

That's when I lose it completely. I collapse on the ground—reminiscent of my meltdown at school—and sob and sob until I run out of tears. I slide down the wall at some point and the rest is a blur.

I collect myself, walking over to the sink, taking the First Response boxes in my hands. I tear each one into tiny pieces, hoping it will be enough to destroy the evidence.

I grab the decorative tissue box from the counter.

I'm sure my real intention was to blow my nose or something, but a better idea pops into my head. I rip the tissues from the box one by one and cover the tests, making sure they're virtually invisible to anyone that comes into the bathroom.

"That should do it," I say to myself. I mean to sound chipper. Unfortunately, I think I sound more depressed than I did when I was crying.

I take a deep breath and look around the room. I think I've covered everything. It looks as neat and orderly as it did an hour ago. And no one know what's going on... well, unless I include the creepy yellow fish that are painted on the walls. Thankfully, I don't really like to advertise my business—even to my best friends.

I'm basically… almost… kind of… alone in this.

And there it is.

I look at my stomach, which doesn't appear to be any different than it was two months ago. My brows knit together, I find it hard to believe that my body could have changed so much in such a short amount of time, but I couldn't deny that I definitely felt it. There had been something off about me ever since we got back from the beach and, if what I remember from health is right, the timing would have been perfect for conception to happen. And if it weren't, well, sperm could survive for days inside the uterus.

The next time I speak aloud, I address my frazzled reflection.

"I- I don't know what I want to do..." I stammer. I shake my head. "I can't... I can't do this."

But you have to do something. Think Bonnie, think!

Do you want to get rid of it? Do you want an abortion?

Maybe... I contemplate bitterly. It's an option, right? Probably the easiest. Except, if it were that easy, I'm sure everyone who has ever been in my position would have gotten one.

I chew on one of my fingernails. I'd never really given much thought to the subject of abortion on a personal level. I listened to the statistics when the representatives from Planned Parenthood came to class, remember a few basic facts, but when it came time to form an opinion I was neutral. I didn't feel the need to choose a side—it had its pros and it had its cons. It had been as simple as that.

But then, I'd never thought I'd have to consider it either.

The other two alternatives smack me in the face. I picture myself in a hospital bed with a newborn in my arms before I can stop myself. I could either hand him off to someone else—someone more capable—or he could stay with me. I'm stuck. My ruling on this matter will be permanent, I can't go back and undo it if I feel like I've made a mistake.

Somehow, that seems to be the scariest thing right now. That I have to be sure of myself. I haven't been sure of anything in a long time.

I don't have an answer. I'm torn between loving and hating the imaginary baby. I can't stand the idea of having everything I counted on be uprooted, but hating the infant seems equally as hard.

The air is suddenly too thick, and I feel like the walls are going to cave in. I need to get out of the house. I turn to the mirror once more, a desperate look in my eyes.

I need to go; I need to clear my head.

A small part of me wishes I could at least have Caroline by my side but involving her isn't a good idea. Sure, I don't want to be alone. Not that I will... technically... I'm sharing my insides with Damon's demon spawn (which can't be anything like the baby I imagined).

I don't know where I want to go, but anywhere has to be better than here.