Cry With Me.

When she walked in you were still crying. You didn’t have the strength nor the will left in you to dry up your tears and paste a cheesy smile on those sweet lips of yours. Almost nothing left at all.

You looked up at her and your eyes were red and puffy, like you’d been crying for hours. You had.

“They’re wrong,” you whispered. Your voice was hoarse, as if you’d been screaming at the top of your lungs, disturbing other patients in the hospital, for ages. Again, you had.

“Honey,” she sighed. “This is a shock, I know. This is a major phenomenon, not just affecting you, Mr. Ross.”

“It’s my body,” you hissed, eyes blazing. You were half hysterical; not ready to accept the doctor’s diagnosis. “You can’t make me have it.”

Every word that escaped your mouth was filled with hate. Filled with fear. Filled with so many different emotions that identifying them all would be impossible.

The doctor knelt in front of where you were curled up in the corner of the bathroom, under the sink. “No, I can’t,” she confirmed quietly. “No one can. Have some time to think about your situation and don’t make any decisions just yet. Really think about what you’re going to do.”

Tears continued to stream down your face without pause. Your tears seemed to have etched a permanent trail down each cheek which they flowed down so incessantly.

“I want to be alone,” you choked, sobs erupting between each word. The doctor nodded wordlessly and stood to leave. She watched your frail form still huddled beneath the sink before turning away and walking out of the bathroom quietly.

You didn’t move at all. You remained where you were for a long time. Your body shook with tremors and your mumblings were incoherent. You didn’t want this. You didn’t understand this. Most of all, you didn’t want to tell anyone.

What would you say? How would you explain something not even qualified doctors could?

You couldn’t, is this answer. You couldn’t explain what was unfolding before your eyes or within your body. The tiny foetus that was growing everyday. Your sobs ripped through your chest until you physically couldn’t make a sound. Your body was too worn from hours and hours of crying and grief.

You screamed, twice. But the only sound which escaped your lips was a small croaking. Rocking back and forth, you stared at the floor in front of you blindly. The solid green of the tiles was starting to become fuzzy under your gaze.

The fluorescent blue light that shone down on you eased the pain of your eyes. Not like the glare of everything outside the bathroom, so brightly white and sterile.

The door opened and you hardly looked up. You didn’t care who saw you anymore.

“Sir. Sir? Are you alright?”

Your rocking continued without pause. A stout man knelt in front of you and looked at you with penetrating and calculating eyes. They took in your appearance and he clucked his tongue.

“Bad news, eh?” he whispered gruffly.

Your rocking stopped slowly and you looked up at him slowly. Your eyes took a while to focus but when they did you were indifferent, uncaring.

You nodded slowly.

“Well, no use hangin’ in a bathroom weepin’ about it. Some fresh air’ll do you good. A bit of a drink down at the pub, eh?”

“Can’t,” you croaked.

“And why not? Some medical condition?” he enquired. He was curious; he wanted to know what was wrong with you. To see if you were like him.

You nodded, avoiding speech and continued rocking.

“Whaddya have?”

You didn’t answer. The only response that he got was your hand moving to your stomach. You were protective even if you loathed the thing growing inside of you. You didn’t want to kill it even if you thought you did. You couldn’t.

The man noticed your hand. “You feeling sick, boy?”

You nodded again.

“Please, please go away,” you whispered.

The man nodded and gently patted your head before leaving quietly, obviously deciding to not disturb you further and locate another bathroom.

Later that month, when you were showing obvious signs of pregnancy, you sat at in your bedroom, torn in indecision. You didn’t know whether or not to call him, the father of your child. Your hand reached for the phone and then retreated as it had done many times before.

You had stopped talking to him, not even giving him a reason for your silence. You knew you had hurt him; he was a wreck. Your friends had told you that he was all over the place, constantly abusing drugs and booze.

And yet you didn’t have the heart to make the single phone call it would take to inform him of your reasons. Why you were so scared. Why you wouldn’t talk to him. You had been beating yourself up over the decision for ages; it would only take a single phone call. Not much, not much at all.

Your bony hand reached for the phone again, but this time was different to the others; you actually picked it up and dialled his number. A first.

You waited, terrified out of your wits. Just before you were going to hang up the phone he answered. His croaky voice filled you with an old spark of how you used to feel. The way you felt about him had never faltered, it remained true.

“It’s me,” you whispered.

“Ryan?” came the gasped reply.

“Yes, Brennie, it’s me,” you clarified, your whole body shaking. Tears had started to form and your eyes shined. Your insides twisted with guilt and shame.

“Oh baby.” The sobbed reply hit you like a brick wall and you flinched physically and emotionally. You wanted the pain to stop.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, tears now flowing freely down your face. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

You repeated the apology so many times that they finally became incoherent, mixing with the sobs that escaped your hoarse and sore throat.

His sobs echoed yours as he kept asking what you were sorry for. He finally gave up and told you that he was coming to see you.

“Okay,” you whispered dejectedly. You felt defeated, the weight of the world crushing your body.

It didn’t take long for him to get there. But then again, you wouldn’t know; you’d lost all sense of time.

He burst through the door and if you weren’t already hysterical you would have gasped. You’d turned him into a broken man with your actions, the colour of his skin, the way he was skin and bone felt like a physical blow. Because you knew it was all your fault.

He rushed to your side, like the faithful, loving man he is and he gathered you into a hug with his bony arms. Holding you close, he soothed you, wiping away your tears and brushing your hair out of your face.

His hands had been roaming your stomach for a few minutes now but still it hadn’t registered. It took you moving your hand protectively to your stomach for him to actually notice the swollen bump that had formed over the last month.

His confusion beared itself on his face within seconds. You didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t just say, I’m pregnant. You didn’t know if you could formulate the words and then release them, never able to take them back. Once said, they would always be there.

“What’s…” he trailed off. His dull and tired eyes, from so many late nights of drinking and getting high, stared into your red and puffy ones. He was so innocent, so confused. Like a lost puppy almost, just trying to find its way home.

The two words you’d thought you couldn’t say slipped out. They were quiet but still able to be heard.

“I’m pregnant.”

Something flashed in his eyes but you didn’t catch it, you were too busy looking at something else, anything else but him. He was at a loss for words and his brows furrowed while he took the information in. The two words were easily understood but all the implications that accompanied them were illogical. You were a boy.

“But…baby, how?”

“I don’t know,” you told him, finally meeting his eyes. The sobs that you’d held back reigned free once more and you coiled away from him, scared of how he’d treat you now that he knew.

But he pulled you close, even when you struggled against him.

The road ahead would be rough. But leaving your side was never an option. Even if you were a cheating, HIV infected asshole; he would still fight for you.

Because he loved you just that much.