Little hope

There I sat, on the cold toilet seat, staring at nothing, trying to comprehend the immensity of this revelation, the absurdity and monstrosity of it. ‘I am pregnant by a rapist, whom I don’t even remember.’ I touched my stomach, as if expecting to feel movement of the tiny foetus beneath my fingers, but of course, nothing. It would be weeks before a bump appeared, but just knowing there was a life inside me scared me so much. People my age have children, it’s unusual, but not massively so, but normally, that it out of their own choice. Some people are ready, at 17, if they are in a stable relationship and have a job, but me... I’m not. I want to finish school, go to uni, get a job, settle down with a husband, and then have a child. Now, a baby would ruin all my plans for the future.

“Isabel, are you in the bathroom?” I was startled out of my reverie as I scuttled to pick up the pregnancy test and stuff it in my trouser pocket.

“Yep, just one minute.” I said too loudly, to stop my voice faltering.

There was no way I could tell her then. She would be so disappointed that I’d ruined my own life. But I couldn’t just... not do anything. It wouldn’t go away by itself, it was not something, unfortunately, that I could ignore and forget. In fact, the longer I tried to deny it, the more obvious it would become as I got a baby bump, morning sickness, and everything that comes with having a baby growing inside you.

She’ll make me have an abortion, I realised with a jolt. ‘Do I want an abortion?’ I don’t want the baby, it would ruin my life, but I don’t want to kill it. It’s not the child’s fault, so why should it suffer for my stupidity? ‘But it would be so easy, especially this early into the pregnancy,’ my subconscious whispered to me. Then it would be gone, as if it never happened, or at least, the physical repercussions would be gone while I still had to deal with the emotional scarring. As I considered it, however, I felt uneasy, guilty, even, for considering abortion as a solution. It just felt wrong. But, if I kept the child, it would serve as a constant reminder of the rape. Even now, I felt sickened that there was a part of him growing inside me; surely when the baby is born, it would only be worse. I might hate the child, and I could never inflict that sort of suffering upon a small innocent soul, having 2 parents who don’t want anything to do with him.

My head was a complete mess, and I was going in circles thinking of the possibilities. The problem was that there were only really two options – have the child, or have an abortion. Each brought with them a barrage of emotions, mainly guilt and worry. Abortion felt like selfishness, keeping the baby felt like stupidity, and I couldn’t decide which was worse.
I had to tell my mum because it couldn’t be hidden forever, and the sooner, the better, but I first needed to work up the courage and decide what to say.

Every morning, I resolved to tell her that day. The few opportunities I got to speak to her alone melted into unusually casual small-talk as my resolve dissolved under her stern gaze. The longer this dragged on, the more my guilt ate away at me, and my self-loathing grew at my own cowardliness.

For two whole weeks I put off the inevitable conversation and continued life as normally as I could. It was the beginning of the summer holidays, and, unusually for England, and somewhat ironically, given the circumstances, it was sunny, so I spent much of my time in the garden, trying to escape my newfound reality. When three weeks had passed, I knew I had to tell her that very day, or else I never would. I was so scared of what she would say and what she would think of me.

“Mum?” My voice came out hoarse and I cleared my throat.

“Hmm?” She was reading the newspaper and didn’t even look up.

I tried again. “Mum, I need to tell you something.”

Her piercing eyes darted to my mine, and she immediately turned to face me.

“Yes?” She demanded, but I thought I detected a trace of trepidation in her voice. She knew I would never be scared to talk to her unless it was about something very serious.

“You know that party I went to a few weeks ago, at Claire’s house...?”

“You told me it was a sleepover.” She said, eyebrows raised, wondering where this was heading.

“Yes, that’s what she told me, because she knew I wouldn’t go if it was a big party,” I told the floor. “Thing is, when I arrived, there were hundreds of people.”

“And?” She interjected impatiently.

“And, I got drunk.” I looked up at her, but there was no explosion of rage. She was too smart – she knew this wasn’t the end of my story.

I didn’t know how to continue. There was no way to sugar-coat the truth, to make it seem any less devastating, so I decided just to say it forthright.

“Mum, I was raped, and now I’m pregnant.”

For a second she sat, looking straight through me in utter shock. Of all things, this was not what she was expecting. Then, there was a massive shift and her cold demeanour melted instantly, and she grabbed me in a tight embrace.

“You poor baby, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I was... scared.” The tears started flowing.

“They raped you? God, my little baby, why? Did they hurt you?”

“I don’t remember the actual rape, I think maybe they drugged me, but when I woke up, I could... tell.”

For many minutes, she didn’t speak, and just held me close in a way she never had before.

“Darling, you’re... pregnant?”

I nod into her shoulder.

“How long...?”

“Three weeks today.” I feel her tense.

She held me at arm’s length. “You know you have to get rid of it?” It was said gently, but decisively.
I averted my eyes.

“We’ll talk about it later.”