Tatted

BITTER CHRISTMAS

"You collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you've committed."

*****

Christmas was my favorite holiday. I've said this before, but now I say "was" because this is the worst fucking Christmas I've ever experienced.

When I woke up the house was completely silent. I had broken down last night, because after 3 unnecessary hours of having a panic attack I finally took the pregnancy test.

*****

"Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck." I chanted, quietly. I paced around the bathroom as I waited for the results.

There was no fucking way I was gonna have a child. Especially not Micheal's child. If he seriously thinks I'm going to love him simply because I'm pregnant with his kid, he is so insanely wrong.

With my parents obsessing over the news downstairs, Micheal and I were left to argue silently. He kept blabbering about how I was never going to leave this house, or some fucked up shit like that.

My plan to escape had failed, but that doesn't mean that it'll fail the next time I try.

My eyelids was clamped down tightly, in fear of what I would see when I opened them. I gulped before I forced myself to look.

When I saw two lines on the test I swear to God I would've passed out right then and there. I gripped the edge of the sink to keep me steady as the panic sent my body blazing. 

If it wasn't for Micheal knocking on the door and asking if I was okay I would've probably had another panic attack.

This can't be happening to me. What the fuck am I gonna do with a kid?

******

My eyes were sore from deprivation of sleep and possibly from the many hours I spent crying. I still can't believe that yesterday wasn't a dream, rather a terrible reality I would call a nightmare.

My plan was to sleep the day away, to forget about my existence and leave reality to crumble around me, my bed being my shelter.

My plans were dismissed when a nauseating feeling rised in my stomach and quickly reached my throat. I rushed to the bathroom, forgetting completely about my exhaustion.

Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I got up using the toilet as support. I brushed my teeth to rid of the pungent taste of vomit, mint disguising it.

When I woke up, my brain wasn't updated on the date, so I hadn't noticed it was Christmas until I heard my mother outside of the bathroom door calling my name.

"Gia!" She yelled with enthusiasm. "Merry Christmas, Gia."

I had never seen my mom in such a positive mood. It was a rare sight and I was expecting to appreciate it for that reason, but in such a terrible mood it was difficult.

Still in the doorway of the bathroom I stood  when her expression changed. She gave me a pitiful look. I must've looked extremely sick because she cupped my cheek in her hand and smoothed down my hair.

The motherly action was unexpected and a rarity. I could only stare at her, wide-eyed, as she showed affection.

"Oh, Gia..." Her words were worried.

"I'm fine, Mom." My assuring wasn't enough to convince myself that I was truly fine.

If I had to choose which parent I favor after their grand transformation, I would most likely pick my mother. Yes, she was a terrible example back then, but now her communication was excellent. Maybe not to the eyes of others, but with zero experience of what good communication means I declare hers at least good.