"You're going to be a great mom," he whispered, pressing his palms to her swollen belly.

She could see his pupils dilate as he touched her, felt the thrum of life within. The physiology of love. That's how you can tell he's in love with you, her friends used to tell her, years ago when falling in love seemed like the most important thing in the world. His pupils get big. You can't fake that.

"You really think so?" she sighed, wincing as she felt a momentary cramp. Did her pupils ever get big like that? Did her body know how to love?

"Of course!" he exclaimed, kissing her just above her navel. "You're built for this."

Built?

"How do you mean?"

He raised his head, and again she saw his eyes, large and darkened. He was built to love her.

"I've been reading," he said, shining with that same hungry delight that always illuminated him when he'd tumbled down some scientific rabbit hole and returned grossly overfed with delicious knowledge. "When a woman gets pregnant, she's flooded with all these intense hormones. They're already preparing you. And think of how you're connected to the baby right now. Your tissues are knitted together, communicating, already building a relationship. It'll change our brains, being parents--did you know that? Babies make all these sounds and scents that our brains pick up and respond to. We're wired for this, and if we're not already prepared, we adapt neurologically. As soon as we have that little baby in our arms, we'll know exactly how to love it and to care for it, just as people have always done, going back to the beginning of time. Our bodies know. Isn't that beautiful?"

"Yeah," she agreed, smiling softly. But it wasn't beautiful. It made her feel enslaved. Was neurological adaptation a reason to be a mother? Were hormones a reason to crave offspring?

She hadn't told him about the panic attack she'd had in the car the other day, after her doctor's appointment. She'd been listening to other mothers in the waiting room chirping away about how motherhood made them feel so beautiful, made them truly understand what love meant. They chuckled over the times they'd been so unsure, the times they'd wondered if they even wanted children at all, but of course, when it's your own child, you inevitably fall in love with it, and blessings abound. That was what They always said.

What if those were lies women told to keep up the appearance of being good mothers? Surely there were some, at least, who regretted everything. Surely there were some who didn't feel drowned in love and blessings... only drowned. It just wasn't socially acceptable to talk about these things, and maybe it never would be. A mother was supposed to be a bastion of endless unconditional love and self-sacrifice. A mother admitting to anyone that she didn't feel that way at all would be a sociopath. At best, she'd be considered sick in the head... at worst, a monster. Most people who were sick in the head were considered monsters by the general public anyway, so it all came down to the same.

You're built for this.

Already she felt on the verge of another panic attack. The full weight of the social and biological pressure was pressing down on every inch of her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, still gazing at her, his wife, the incubator of his offspring, his own personal fertility goddess.

She pushed her mouth into another smile. "Sure. It's just... you know... stupid pregnancy hormones. The doctor said it was normal to feel weepy at random times. And I'm having a wicked craving. I think I need cookie butter, pronto."

"Of course!" he gushed, already getting to his feet. "You polished off the last jar yesterday, didn't you? I'll zip down to Trader Joe's."

"You're a saint," she sighed. And he was a saint. How could she ever compare? He was acing this dad thing already.

Once she'd heard his car leave the driveway, she succumbed to the bout of ugly, heaving sobs that had been digging at her, her face streaming with tears and snot. Were her inner tissues already communicating with the little sea slug inside her that was going to be her baby? Did it already know it existed because she had a short period of "baby fever" after being around her pregnant sister too much? Did it know about hormones, and how they'd made her think she wanted something she had never desired before? Did it know she had been the only girl of all her friends who never understood playing with dolls? Did it know she felt tricked, and trapped?

You're built for this.

Maybe they were built for all of it. She probably didn't even realize the reasons she'd chosen her husband. She'd thought it was everything to do with his personality, his interests, his disposition, and how he treated her. It could have simply been to do with the symmetry of his face or with his pheromones. Were they any different from dogs, pigeons, sea turtles, tapeworms? Everything simply followed biology, as it had been designed to. Someone, or something, was pulling all the strings. Did anything or anyone ever really make a choice?

She wasn't allowed to have regrets now. The baby was coming, as surely as the sun rose and set and the tides drifted in and out. It didn't feel beautiful. Not yet, at least. But if it never did, she would have to keep this secret deep inside herself, incubate it like the dark counterpart of the fetus burgeoning in her womb, and hope that it would never be born.

"You don't care at all?" she wondered aloud.

I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed my smokes. "Do you?"

She was young. Too young to be in a cheap motel room with me, too young to be dirtied up by an impassive teacher. Her teacher. "I'm eighteen now," she'd written on a note once. A couple weeks later, we were fucking.

I probably would've pursued her quicker if I hadn't been off to get married.

"I guess not." She rose from the bed, naked as the day she was born, and swiped a finger over the broken TV in the corner.

I caught the way her nose wrinkled when her digit came up dusty. She was…cute. Beautiful, even. Perky. I had a thing for brunettes with green eyes, even when they were lifeless like hers.

She turned on me and cocked her head. "Are you curious about me?"

No, not really.

I heard enough through the grapevine to know she'd lost her parents shortly before she wrote me that note in class. I knew she lived with an aunt she detested. I knew she couldn’t wait to leave our town and go to college. I also knew she didn’t have the grades for it.

I was her…rebellious phase, I supposed. Her way of mourning.

She smirked. "Never mind."

I patted the empty spot next to me and took a drag from my smoke. "Kiss me."

So she did.

*

Another missed call from my brother. For not being on speaking terms, he called often enough. I wished he wouldn’t. There was nothing to say.

"Morning, babe." My wife was awfully dolled up this morning. She waltzed into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffeemaker, while I hoped for my bank statement's sake she'd get a job soon. Fingers crossed for today's interviews.

"Good morning." I returned my gaze to my phone, my thumb brushing over the button that could block my brother's number. It should be easy, except it wasn’t. Goddammit. I pinched the bridge of my nose, memories cracking down like thunder.

"Not all of it, baby bro. Mom will know if we eat too much." We were once best friends. I was two minutes older, something I used to love pointing out. "But I'm hungry, Avery…" As the eldest, I'd taken it upon myself to look after him. "I'll find something tomorrow in school. Come on, let's get back to bed."

I couldn’t look after him anymore. Scratch that—I couldn’t look at him, period. Sometimes, history was best left buried.

"We should have dinner at that place tonight—what's it called?" She could never fucking remember.

"Castellano's," I sighed. "Sure. I can meet you there at seven." I had a faculty meeting I couldn’t blow off.

*

Unless…

"Fuck."

The walls of the cheap motel room were becoming all too familiar. I ached, tension building up, and went faster. Harder. I chased something, and it was more than a quick release. Which never worked. A quick release was all I received ten minutes later when I drove in deep and emptied myself in a girl who should be at home doing her homework.

I collapsed on the mattress, my heart racing.

My God, what she lacked in the classroom she made up for in spades in the bedroom.

"Holy shit," she panted.

I lit up a smoke, waiting for my breathing to even out. "Yeah."

My phone dinged with a message.

Where are you?

Squinting at the screen, I noticed it was ten minutes past seven. I replied, saying I was going to be late, and then I turned off the sound and brought the ashtray to the middle of the bed.

"Shouldn’t you be on your way?" She pulled the sheets higher and turned on her side. Her hair was fanned out across the pillow, and I found myself reaching out, twisting a silky wave of rich brown between my fingers. She giggled. "You really are a dick, aren't you?"

"Mm." I hoped she wouldn’t forget it, either. "Says a thing or two about you being here, too."

Her amusement faded. "I know." Taking the sheets with her, she sat up, looking too troubled. I supposed our moment was over, so I let my head hit the pillow again, and I stared at the ceiling. "I get this rock in my stomach when I think of things I have to do."

I hummed noncommittally and blew out a couple smoke rings, vaguely remembering my own rock. How it tightened my stomach and gave me anxiety. It'd been a while.

"Then I give up and text you instead," she mumbled. "What's wrong with me?"

So I was an escape. Made sense.

"I don't know what to do, Mr. Becker."

I frowned and tossed her a brief look. "I think it's safe to say you can call me Avery at this point."

She sighed and plopped down on the mattress once more. "What I'm doing now just feels like dying a very slow death."

"Isn't that what life is?"

"Depressing," she noted. "No…life is supposed to be full of happiness, mistakes, lessons learned, and exploring."

I rubbed at a faint twinge in my chest. Had I ever believed life was about those things? No. Life was about taking shit—and then spending the rest of your sorry days hurting the wrong people because it was the only thing that temporarily stilled the rattling box of despair at the back of your mind.

I blew out a breath, exhausted.

There was hope for the girl.

I was going to die a slow death and be missed by no one.

"I wouldn’t mind exploring a certain place between your thighs." I put out my smoke, figuring it was at least partly true. I was getting hooked on this girl's body. But I knew, most of all, I just needed her to shut the fuck up. I couldn’t afford a rude awakening or the longing it would bring. Those days were over.

When she didn’t answer, I faced her. Curious.

She bit her lip. The hesitation was written all over her, and I wondered if this was it.

I offered her my lazy grin, my chest constricting. "Kiss me."

This time, she didn’t.

She wasn’t going to die a slow death.

*

To be extended and continued.

Written by Cara Dee

Writey person of the Aftermath Novels, Camassia Cove Series, Touch, and more.

www.caradeewrites.com

Her laptop glowed with excitement.

Exhilaration tingled in her fingertips. 

The words fluttered before her.

She clicked the button publish. 

Yet no one liked it.  

I'm sorry I was never good enough for you,

that try as I might, I could never be the me

that you wanted.

I'm sorry I was never pretty enough,

never smart enough,

never talented enough,

never sexy enough.

I'm sorry you felt like you had to

beat "the dog shit" out of me

on a weekly basis.

I'm sorry your brains are

  now

    splattered

      upon

        the

          floor.

- Bob, when she's 13, in her bedroom, covered in pink, the pussy bleeds

- John, 16, in his bedroom, covered with poster girls

 *repeat 2x, until he dumps her for another girl

- Brad, 18, in her dorm room, while roomie sleeps

 *every night until she leaves him for...

- Henry, 19, in his dorm room, while roomie secretly watches

 *2x a week, until he gets kicked out of school

- Michael, 22, in a dingy motel room, first blowjob

 *he didn't call

- Phillip and Paul, 22, in a different motel room, first three-way

- Can't remember name, 22, in a dark alley, in exchange for heroin

- More names, unremembered, 22-25, various locations, usually strung-out

- John (a different one), 26, another motel room, first foray into BDSM

- Steven, 26, back to the alley, in exchange for heroin

 *2x a week, until she "quits"

- Monte, 27, first interracial fuck

- Tim and Theodore, 27, their place, another three-way

- Tiffany, 28, in a nice hotel, first same-sex encounter

- Wanda and Robert, 28, their place, another three-way

 *repeat 3x, until Wanda gets too jealous

- Sylvester, 29, in a van, exchanged for heroin

 *repeat 12x, until thrown in jail

- Marie, Stella, Connie, that redhead, 2 unnamed guards, 30, in her jail cell

- Matthew, 30, in a halfway house

 *repeat 2x, then he confesses he has...

- AIDS, 35, alone in the bathroom, last masturbation, last breath

1. I remember falling in love with you.

2. The first prayer I ever said willingly was asking God if you could love me just as much as I loved you. 

3. I am sure he did not hear me. 

I do not believe in God.

4. You said you did not mean it. 

I'm not sure what "it" was. Abuse is not just one thing. 

It is a number of things tied together with thorns.

It is meant to draw blood.

5. I refuse to accept an apology. 

I refuse to climb back inside your jaws and let you swallow me whole. 

I refuse to feed my body to those who do not love me.

I refuse to die by your hands again.

6. When you said no one could love me like you did, you were right.

I do not let them.

7. Maybe my faithless prayer was heard after all.

8. I do not love you anymore.

1. foolproof plan

2. tarpaulin

3. axe

4. knives

5. paper towels

6. bleach

7. soap

8. shovel

9. garbage bags

10. kill witnesses

11. alibi