Ugly Pretty

Chapter 1

The flickering overhead light made shadows stretch and retreat along the cracked ceiling, like they couldn't decide whether to stay or flee. The bulb buzzed faintly, like it wanted to give out but hadn't gotten permission yet. The couch's springs groaned beneath Jenna as she sat stiffly on the edge, her shoulders hunched like they were protecting something fragile. Her fingers worried a loose thread on her sleeve until it unraveled into a tiny knot. She wasn't even aware she was doing it anymore, the compulsive need to focus on something, anything, that wasn't her. Her skin, once sun-kissed and lively, was paler than usual, almost grey beneath the overhead light. It stretched tight across the sharp architecture of her face. Her collarbones jutted out like punctuation marks in a sentence she hadn't finished writing. Her presence, though physically heavier, felt smaller, like she was folding in on herself cell by cell. She was shrinking in ways no one could see. Ways no one ever asked about.

The apartment whispered exhaustion in every corner. The floor groaned under the weight of old stains and dropped hopes. Empty beer cans lined the coffee table like trophies from a war she hadn't agreed to fight. The dishes in the sink were a monument to neglect, sagging under dried-out food remnants. A layer of greasy dust clung to the stove. The fridge hummed an empty, resentful tune, inside, only a nearly empty egg carton, a bottle of mustard, and expired milk remained. The stink of sour dairy clung to the air. Baby books sat untouched in a dusty pile on the floor, their cellophane wrappers still intact. Titles like Your Miracle Month by Month and Bonding Before Birth glared up at her like accusations. She hadn't opened them. Couldn't. Not yet.

Josh stood by the kitchen counter, twisting the cap off a bottle of cheap whiskey. The movement was fluid, unconscious, like he'd done it so many times that muscle memory carried him even when his mind was somewhere else. His back to her, always his back.

"You're staring again," he muttered.

Jenna blinked. "You're still drinking."

Her voice came out hoarse, scraped thin from disuse. She'd stopped raising it weeks ago. There was no point.

Josh scoffed without turning. "It's one drink. You don't get to police me just 'cause you got knocked up."

Her stomach, swollen and sore beneath her hoodie, gave a soft throb as if in response. She winced, her hand instinctively coming to rest over the curve. The baby kicked, a light flutter, like reassurance. 

"It's your baby too," she said quietly.

That got him. He turned slowly, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, face slack with irritation and just a hint of alcohol haze.

"You sure about that?" he asked.

The words hit like a slap. Jenna flinched, not physically, not visibly, but something behind her eyes recoiled. That was his new tactic. Planting doubt. Sowing it like seeds and waiting for it to grow, watching her second-guess herself, question her memories, rewrite the truth to suit his version.

He didn't hit her. Not really. Not in ways that left bruises anyone could see. But he knew exactly where to cut.

And Jenna, she bled in silence.

The weeks that followed blurred into one long stretch of ache and waiting. Each day dissolved into the next like food colouring in water, diluted and bleeding at the edges. Her belly grew. So did his distance.

Josh stopped sleeping beside her, first by accident, then by habit, then by choice. He'd disappear for nights at a time, claiming he was with friends. Crashing at a mate's place. "Just needed space." He'd return smelling of alcohol and unfamiliar perfume. When she'd wake up to the door slamming at 3 a.m., her first reaction was always dread, not relief. He'd crash around in the kitchen, swearing at drawers, making noise just to make it. Then he'd come into the living room and stare at her like she'd ruined his life.