Us Against The World

There were only three times in my life that I had ever set foot in a hospital. I wasn't even born in one – I was allegedly dropped out in a rusted banger in a lay-by. According to my file which I read but was never supposed to read. Don't get me wrong – I was a very accident prone kid. Scrapes, gashes, bumps – something purplish was always decorating my skin. Never ER worthy though; unless you were spurting out blood by the gallon, had a limb at a weird angle or were unconscious to the world, you never went to hospital. The time and expense was far too much.

The first time was one I hardly remembered. I was five years old – small, skinny and seemingly very annoying to the other kids in the Home in which I was in at the time. The older boys – there was about five of them, aged between eight and twelve – were playing a game of football in the scabby patch of land than was meant to pass as a garden. I'd been clamouring all day for them to let me join in, but they were resolute – there was no way the 'stupid little baby' was going to be allowed to play. In the end, after sitting on the stone step leading into the kitchen for what seemed hours, in reality it was probably only ten minutes, I decided that I was going to play, no matter what. I got up, dusted dirt off my ragged shorts, and ran into the mix, determined to kick that ball, even if it was just once. What started off as a seemingly good plan ended up with a football straight to the face, a broken nose and a three day admission to the paediatrics ward for a mild concussion. The dual black eyes were pretty impressive, though.

The second was some years later – when I was ten. Primary schools were meant to be fun places, with paintings on the walls, mother-hen-like teachers and healthy lunches. Markstone Primary was far from that idealistic fantasy. It was a large, grey, austere building, filled with kids from the norwood estate who seemed twice as tall and at least three times as wide as me. I had hardly grown much, or bulked out for that matter, since the previous incident. I was the odd Care Kid, with cheap, second-hand charity clothes, badly-cut hair and no friends. The dorky kid who listened in lessons, worked and tried like hell to get the grades needed to secure a place at the Grammar School, and out the current hellhole. The easy target to steal lunch from. I took years of being pushed around in the infants – it was no wonder that I was so scrawny, due to the amount of lunch I was actually left with to consume. One day, I'd had enough. I snapped. I refused to give my food to the 'elite group', as they called themselves. Charise and Shannon and Becky. I apparently hit one of them with my schoolbag. (Don't actually remember doing that, but according to what the police told my carer from witness reports after the accident, it happened.)

Anyhow, I hid out in the toilets for the rest of lunch break and the afternoon's lessons, scared witless. Their punches hurt. They'd hit me a few times before. I had never cried though – I had stood there, eyes watering, fists stiffly by my side. This time would be different though. At the ages of ten and eleven, they already knew how to fight – they all had older siblings, in gangs, with knifes. I couldn't defend myself; the teachers wouldn't notice, wouldn't help. I had no friends, no siblings, no-one. I ran out of the toilets when the bell signalling the end of the day rang. I had to get out of the grounds before they were let out of class. Or they'd get me. I streaked across the playground, still empty from others, out of the gates, onto the pavement and out into the road.

I don't remember the car hitting me. I don't remember much about the next few days, actually. I know what happened, I just don't remember it. It was a black car, going about thirty miles an hour that hit me. I cracked the windscreen on impact. An ambulance arrived twelve minutes later. I had a decent crowd during that time, not that I knew seeing as my head was bleeding out onto the road, but I digress. A shattered kneecap, three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and a minor intracranial bleed later, I spent a rather happy few weeks in hospital, not worrying about the bullies harming me. Even so, they left me alone when I eventually returned to the crappy school. Perhaps they were worried that I might have hit them with my crutches. It was an overall win.

The third and most recent time was only two weeks ago. It was much less interesting than the previous visits – blood tests. A disease panel work-up. Delightfully fun. I was fascinated by the needles though – most people freak or faint at the sight of them. I couldn't help but watch as it was jammed into my arm. 'Sadistic', Cyrus remarked when I told him later that night (we share unimportant details of our day, see). I simply told him that it was a calling to my future career – professional needle stabber. Or a phlebotomist as it's officially called… Probably just to make it seem less scary. I like my name better, personally.

Anyhow, sitting in a white, sterile, clinical room, waiting for the results was a whole level more scary. Especially when you know what's coming. A clock on the wall ticked with an overwhelming echo in the silent room. Melanie was sitting in a plastic seat, to the side, next to cabinets that I'm sure were full of bottles and monitors and lots of sharp things. She fiddled with her nails, picking at them nervously. She'd spent a lot of time in hospitals rooms, waiting on doctors to tell her bad news. It was no wonder that she was anxious. This time, however, she wasn't sitting with Stephen, waiting for the incoming news that their latest attempt at conception had been another failure. It was quite the opposite, actually. Stephen was at work, and I was the one sitting on the edge of the paper-covered examination table. Instead of wanting to hear the news of a positive result, it was being prayed against. That there was no tiny cluster of cells, no miniature heart beating away in the darkness.

The sound of the door opening cut through the air, void of noise other than the rhythmic ticking. A doctor entered, tall, with dark curly hair, vaguely familiar. Dr Young; the one who sent me for blood tests in the first place. He shook Melanie's hand before doing the same to me, giving me a weak smile. It didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't particularly old, early thirties maybe, but his hair was beginning to grey at the temples and deep laughter lines framed his eyes. They had definitely not seemed to be worry ones on the previous occasion that we had met, but this time I was not so sure. Sitting down on an office chair, he unhooked his stethoscope from around his neck, placing it on down of the top of the waist-height working space before opening the chart which he'd brought in with him. Quickly scanning it, he swallowed and looked up at me, his sharp, blue eyes meeting mine for the first time. "The STD panel was completely clear, we'll need to retest in a year's time to make sure, but that outlook is positive for now," he paused, taking in a breath and stalling.

He didn't even need to say it. I knew, already. "It's positive, isn't it? The pregnancy test," there was no point in delaying it; it was inevitable enough.

"Blood factors show that," he began delicately. "you are, pregnant, yes."

It wasn't a blow, it wasn't a shock. It didn't even make me feel upset, or angry. Just a little bit more numb. I was vaguely aware of Melanie standing up, coming to stand beside me, placing one hand on my shoulder. The other, I didn't fail to notice, came to rest upon her own, slightly more rotund than before, stomach. She murmured something, which I failed to hear and failed to understand.

Dr Young nodded, closing the file and placing it alongside his stethoscope, his voice more clear in my ringing ears. "We have some booklets I can offer you to aid you in your decisions, and I, of course, can offer my medical opinion."

Melanie opened her mouth, most likely to simple thank him, but I cut across her. "Medical… What about personal? What do you think I should do?"

"Eva-" Mel warned me, not that I particularly cared, but he cut her off with a slightly raise of his hand.

Wheeling forward his chair, so he was sitting directly opposite me, he rested his elbows upon his knees, leaning in slightly. He had a kind face, a gentle face, I noticed then. "Eva, it's not for me to tell you what I think you should do. I'm here to only offer medical advice and assistance, not personal views. I can't help you make the choice."

"I know. Regardless, though, what do you believe?"

He glanced up, towards Melanie, as if to ask her permission to continue. She stayed silent and he eventually turned to look back at me. "I'm a supporter of pro-life," he answered honestly. "I feel that termination shouldn't be an option. It is, however, and there are certain… Circumstances where a woman has every right to make decisions about her body and health. Your body isn't completely developed, Eva. It's not as well equipped to deal with the consequences of pregnancy as it would be if it were fully mature. You have to be sure that whatever path you take, it is best for your physical as well as mental well-being. It's a decision you must make on your own, after much careful deliberation. You mustn't be influenced by my views, those of your parents, friends or other peers. We can offer you counselling to help you deal with any problems which may occur and to give you guidance for your personal choices. My colleagues and I," he took a quick glance to Melanie once more. "As well as those around you, I'm sure, will accept and help you every step of the way in whichever decision you may make."

I slowly nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. There was nothing more I wanted than to crawl under the covers of my bed and fall asleep. To escape from it all. "I… I just want to go home."

"Of course," he gave me another weak smile, standing up and shaking Melanie's hand as she thanked him, before leading us out of the room and into the reception of the hospital clinic outside. He gave her some paperwork to fill out, as well as some pamphlets on 'choices', as I looked around at those waiting. I'd always liked trying to figure out what was wrong with people sitting in doctor's surgeries – usually, it was fairly obvious; a twisted ankle, a bad cough, an ominous rash. I couldn't help but wonder if any of them looked at me and thought to themselves 'pregnant girl'.

It had started to rain by the time we got home. The sky had been a stormy grey all day and large, fat raindrops were beginning to smash against the windscreen and pavements as Melanie pulled into the driveway and parked. She'd attempted to make idle chatter on the journey – what would I like for dinner, what was on tv that night, did I have any plans for the weekend, until she ground to a tired halt after only receiving non-committal grunts from me. It wasn't me being a bitch, I'd like to say; I was just more than a little distracted by the massive elephant squashed up on the back seat, which she seemed to want to ignore for the current time. Which I actually appreciated to some extent.

I bolted up to my bedroom as soon as I was through the front door. The last thing I wanted, or needed for that matter, was an 'understanding' talk and being told that I wasn't alone. At least they were right about that; I wasn't alone anymore, not for a single second. I wasn't particularly sure what I was supposed to be feeling at that time, or if I were actually feeling anything at thing. If anything, I'd say that I was calm, which in retrospect seemed completely barmy. Perhaps I was past the point of hysteria, or maybe I just didn't fully understand the overwhelming situation at the time. Either way, as I sat on my bed, facing the enormity of what was happening, all I could think was that this wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. I wasn't meant to be fifteen years old and pregnant with a child whose father I knew little more about than the callous feel of their hands and how their grimy face looked like when shrouded in darkness. It wasn't meant to happen.

Screwing my hands up into fists, I balled them into my stomach, wanting to feel something – hate, affection, anything other than indifference. But, yet, nothing came. Perhaps I was void of any emotion whatsoever anymore.

It wasn't late in the day – just after two o'clock. There would not have been too much point in me going back to school for the rest of the afternoon. Wednesdays were never particularly exciting, and it was the final week of term before the Christmas holidays. Lessons usually comprised of eating chocolate and watching some film which you saw year in, year out. But still, I'd rather have been sitting at the back of a darkened classroom with a distraction than sitting, not alone, with nothing to fill the silence or interrupt the thoughts of mine which I really didn't wish to have. It wasn't something I could ignore forever – I knew that even then, but I wanted to pretend for just a little longer. At least until Stephen got home and the issue wouldn't be allowed to be skirted around for much longer. That was him all over; as blunt as safety scissors, with no patience for tact.

Lying back on top of the duvet, I curled up into a ball, listening to the rain splattering against the window. It was a sound very much associated with melancholy, but it was comforting to me; soft, rhythmic, it was a pleasant sound. There was something deeply comforting about lying down in the darkness, with rain hammering down on the roof above you and a low rumble of thunder in the distance.

I wasn't sure how long I lay there, listening to raindrops spatter against the roof tiles before sliding down and dripping off of the blocked guttering and onto the patio below. I may have even fallen asleep at one point, but still I stirred at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I knew who it was before they even reached the top. Melanie's steps were usually loud, with not much of a pause between them; she tended to half-run up them. Stephen's, on the other hand, were slow and heavy, emitting a protesting creak from each one. No – these ones weren't either of those. They were near-silent, light, quick. They could only belong to one person.

Sure enough, a knock resounded against my closed door and without waiting for an answer, it opened. Cyrus' dark silhouette sat out sharply against the pale, honey-coloured wood of the door. The fluffy, stuck-up hair, ski-slope of a nose, strong jaw bone and the thin, wire-framed glasses. So familiar, yet strangely different. Standing still, he slowly inhaled before murmuring a soft "hey," and shifting his weight from one leg to the other. After a few moments of silence, he hastily continued. "You should really come downstairs…" He took a few steps into the centre of the room, and nervously looked around. "It's not good to stay in the same room for long periods of time. It seems comforting, like a haven, I know… But it's not – it's an unintentional prison. And that's really not good for the mind."

As he paused, his soft eyes coming to rest upon me in the shadowy darkness, I could only mumble into my pillow "You know, do you?"

"Yes," he firmly said, "I do." Stretching out a hand towards me, he took a step towards the bed. "Come, I'll be with you. It's less scary that way." Staring at his pale palm for a couple of seconds, I hesitantly reached out and took it. He gently pulled me upright and softly smiled down. "One small step at a time, yeah? It's best to think like that – not to look too far into the future."

I nodded as he slowly led me out of the room and along the landing. From out of the window, the sun had already dipped low behind the horizon, the sky a mass mix of purple, blacks and the palest pinks and oranges on the very cusp. In early December, the sun set at around five o'clock – he'd obviously come straight here from school. His visits were strangely sporadic – one week, he could always be found lurking in the annex or kitchen, but the next, he would only be seen in lessons. 'Flighty,' Stephen had once explained. 'Finds it difficult to settle in one place for too long. Feels too exposed, too vulnerable to stay; his social anxiety does tend to get the better of him a lot of the time.' And that was just the way it was. The previous week had been one where he was about as rarely seen as a dodo out of class… Which meant that he actually might as well have been extinct. I was surprised that he'd turned up; it tended to be Thursdays, not Wednesdays, that he'd arrive for some hot, home cooked food and decent tv. His early appearance would only likely mean one thing.

"She told you, didn't she?" I asked once we'd reached the warm sitting room, which smelt of burning wood from the fire, a cinnamon candle on the mantelpiece and liberally sprayed pine air-scent.

He didn't even bother to deny it, simply replying with a curt 'Yes," as he sat me down upon the sofa before doing so himself. Staying silent for a short while, he eventually squeezed my hand. "Scared?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." It was okay to admit that to him – he understood. He wouldn't ridicule me, or pressure me, or do whatever most other people would do.

Angling his head towards me, he attempted to smile. The lights from the Christmas tree in the corner flashed in their reflection in his glasses. Melanie had erected it on the first day of the month – she loved Christmas, with all its tradition and food and decorations. I'd been looking forward to it, the previous day even, to understand what a real Christmas was supposed to be about. So different to the bog-standard affairs I was used to - a slice of processed turkey, half a dozen greasy sprouts and some socks as a present. Tacky tinsel and paper-chains made by four-year olds a gazillion years ago. Christmas with the Firths had seemed like something so much more special. Holly wreaths entwined every surface, baubles on the tree were made of hand-blown glass and Melanie had been testing amazingly-smelling new dishes for the dinner all week. Stephen's parents were even supposed to be coming down for the evening – it would be the first time that I'd met them. That day, of fun and joy and festivities, now seemed so far away. Unimportant, almost.

Cyrus, who always seemed to know what I was thinking squeezed my hand again, harder this time. "It'll be okay."

"You always say that."

"Because if it's not alright, it's not over." His face, a soft orange colour in the firelight, seemed earnest.

"What am I supposed to do?" I whispered.

"I can't tell you that; it's your decision."

"That's what everyone's said, but I can't decide-"

He gently interrupted, shifting closer on the sofa so that the cushion dipped, tilting me towards him. "You don't have to yet."

"But I won't be able to, ever. It's horrible, how ridiculously unfair life is, isn't it? Stephen and Mel – they tried for years for a baby and couldn't. It's the same for loads of couples. And then, I'm here, and I'm wanting nothing else but for this not to be happening. I don't want a baby, Cy, I can't be a mother. I don't even know what one is, really."

His eyes grew darker, pained almost. Then, in the next split second, his expression became passive one more. "You feel guilty because of all the childless couples? You don't want it, but you can't terminate, because that's killing and it's seems so ungrateful. Is that right?" I could barely nod and his expression softened once more as he wrapped his arms around my torso and pulled me towards him, resting his chin on top of my head. "You mustn't think about it like that. No-one's going to hate you for what choice you make. We're all behind you in this. Stephen and Mel – they're getting their baby, finally. If the other couples are meant to have children, then they will. Let fate decide that, don't be inclined yourself to try and fix it, merely out of guilt."

It took a few minutes of silence, of his warm breath in my hair, of his gentle hands on my back, before I felt I could reply. "But none of the… Options can work, I think. I can't abort it, because even though I don't want it, don't love it, it's killing. It's murder. And I can't keep it, because how the hell am I supposed to raise a kid? I'm fifteen, for fuck's sake. I should be at friend's houses for sleepovers, drinking booze stolen from parent's liquor cabinets and nattering about which boys in the year are hot. But I'm not. I'm here, having to figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to do about a baby, my baby, who came into existence only because of a foul, selfish bastard of a man."

As sobs spilled up my throat, his fingers moved to the back of my neck, my ears, my jaw. Circling, comforting, he hushed me from hysterics in a way only he knew how. "Life isn't fair, Evangeline," he eventually whispered. "Believe me, I know far better than most that life isn't fair. But you have to grab it by the horns and just get on with it, don't let it beat you. You have to show you're better then that," placing a finger under my chin, he tilted it so I was looking properly at him. "Because you are better than that."

With a bitter life, it was still the first laugh in weeks, I hugged him once more as new tears spilled down my cheeks. "How the hell did you get so wise?"

He tightly returned the embrace. "Life. Experience. Learning from mistakes. Grabbing the bull by the horns and riding it until it bucks you into another brick wall. Even then, you have to get up, dust yourself off and try again, because you mustn't ever let something defeat you."