Pregnant. Expecting. With child. Up the duff. Bun in the over. Eating for two. Knocked up...No matter how I say it, it doesn't make this scenario any easier to get my head around.
I'm having Mark's baby.
I don't understand how this happened. Well, no. I understand how this happened. I just don't know why this happened. No, that's not right either. I know that too. I just...I mean...Fuck, I don't even know. I don't have a fucking clue how to process any of this. There is nothing right about this scenario. Nothing makes sense in my head. It just hurts. My head hurt. My lungs hurt. My heart hurts. Everything fucking hurts.
I'm having Mark's fucking baby.
I hear voices in my head. But they're not in my head. They're the people around me. Trying to tell me all these different things, drag me out of my head. But they're just like little flies, buzz buzz buzzing insignificantly around the hollow recess that used to hold my brain. But I think that's melted down into something completely useless. I must have shut down. Probably shut down. Yep, definitely shut down.
I'm fucking having Mark's motherfucking baby...
No matter how many curses I throw into the sentence, it doesn't stop it being any real. I keep hoping that if I throw hundreds of obscenities into the mix, it will erase this all from existence. Sadly, it's not working. The world still goes on. The buzzing of my company keeps on buzzing. And I am still carrying Mark's baby.
Holy shit.
What am I supposed to do? I can't even look after myself. I can't cook, I can't clean, I can't even go out into the street without the need of someone next to me any more. Every scrap of independence has left my body since Mark Sheehan walked into my life. I am completely reliant on him, and his love, and his protection, and everything to do with him. So how the fuck am I supposed to cope with having a baby?
“You don't have to keep it.”
The words instantly drag me out of the internal whirlpool I'm sinking into, forcing my eyes to focus to the front seat of the car. I'm not sure how we got here, but I'm not surprised by that. It's the blunt words of my therapist that has shocked my system, bringing me a new sense of hope that now fills up my chest.
I don't have to keep it...
“Stop the car.”
I turn to look at Danny, the owner of these newest words, and see the anger that goes along with them. I feel my nose crinkle in confusion, but he doesn't look at me. He simply seethes at the woman in the front seat. What is his problem?
“Glen, stop the car.”
“I can't...”
“Stop the fucking car.”
The car suddenly makes a dangerous swerve, resulting in honking of horns and bodies to jerk violently into each other inside of our metal moving device. I hear Hallet's aggressive tone, but it falls on deaf ears. As soon as the car comes to a halt, Danny is out of the door. And as he slams his door behind him, he rips open the passenger seat door.
“Get out.” What...
“What are you...”
“I said, get out.”
“You can't do this...”
“Yes, I can. Get out of our fucking car before I make you.”
I watch in horror as my biggest source of information and support steps out of the car. And in her place, a pissed off Irishman sits. Slamming the door closed, he ignores the look of utter disbelief she gives him and turns to Glen.
