The Girl With No Name

Chapter Twenty-Five

The first time it happened, I blamed it on the airplane food. Airplane food was notoriously nasty. Vigorously processed, stuffed in an unventilated cupboard, and then put into a microwave to be reheated. The Victorians ate better than that. This was practically medieval.

Then, the second time it happened, I labelled it as stress. Needless to say, I was very fucking stressed out. Both my lover and best friend had died within the space of two weeks and I fucking knew who was responsible but couldn't say anything. Not to mention, the same mystical serial killer who'd murdered them was probably targeting me as well - which, despite the advantage I had against him, was a very unsettling thought.

However, after visiting the bathroom for the third time during the flight to throw up my empty stomach, I could no longer deny that something was seriously wrong. As I returned to my designated seat, I began to ponder the list of possibilities.

1. I'd caught food poisoning.

Not a chance. I hadn't eaten any eggs or raw meats in the past week. In fact, I'd barely eaten anything at all. It wouldn't make sense.

2. I had a serious gastric infection.

Hm. Unlikely, but still possible. But if it was bad enough to make me vomit this many times, surely I'd be showing other symptoms?

The last thought that came to my mind (as it does with all paranoid females, regardless of the circumstance) was that I was pregnant. In response to that, I audibly scoffed, drawing the attention of several passengers trying to sleep. There was no way I could be pregnant. I was well protected against it, and I'd made sure of that long before I'd even met L. Getting knocked up just wasn't a possibility.

Still, the longer I thought on it, the more things seemed to make sense. I'd had other symptoms - symptoms that didn't fit into the criteria of other illnesses - and, as I listed them, the more the worry started to set in.

The vomiting? Easy. Morning sickness.

The tenderness in my chest? A rise in progesterone levels.

Fatigue? Well, that one could've been caused by the fact I hadn't been sleeping much... or the depression that was slowly crushing my soul.

Being constantly hungry despite a lack of appetite? I'd just assumed I was missing L and wanted a way to comfort myself.

But no, I realised. Oh no. I was eating for two.

Fuck.

I remained catatonic for the rest of the flight, thankfully not requiring another embarrassing trip to the bathroom. For the remaining hours, I sat and reasoned with myself that I was overthinking; that this was just the result of stress and poor sleep.

It didn't make sense. I'd been fitted with a contraceptive IUD over three years ago and I'd gotten it for a reason - it was one of the most effective examples of female birth control out there. I barely ever got my period, maybe once or twice every year. The chances of getting pregnant with that were slim to none... but apparently not slim enough.

I tried not to dwell on it too much until I knew for sure (the key word being: tried). As soon as we touched down at JFK and my feet were planted on US soil, I marched through the airport to the closest pharmacy and bought a stack of pregnancy tests. The cashier gave me the most incredulous look as he scanned them through and honestly, I couldn't blame him. My thoughts raced a mile a minute and I shakily slid the cash over the counter and collected my tests in a bag.

Sitting alone in that bathroom stall was an incredibly lonely experience, made worse by the knowledge that I wouldn't technically be alone if this test came back positive. Unable to sit still, I fiddled and paced as the test marinated on the side of the toilet, my thoughts coming too erratically to streamline them into one conscious notion.