Trauma

A Short Story

TW:Needles

Anxiety bloomed in my chest as I watched the clock on the wall. Five minutes and he’d be home. My phone buzzed and my eyes slid to the message on the screen.

“Nearly home, put the kettle on”.

 My hands shook as I lifted the kettle. I poured boiling water over both the tea bags and let it brew. My palms grew clammy as the steam floated upwards. The clunking of the key in the door told me he was home and I felt the weight of our future in my trouser pocket. As he came into the hallway our eyes met and he saw something in mine that made him stop dead. “What is it?” he said. I stepped towards him and pulled out the white piece of plastic from my pocket and held it up. Two red lines shouted at him and his jaw dropped. “Do you mean it, are you sure?” He asked. His voice wavered. “I’m sure.” I smiled. My grin spreading, I retrieved three more tests from my other pocket, all boasting: positive. 

That night I lay awake in disbelief. His reaction had been better than I could have hoped for. I listened to his soft breathing, his kind words still in my mind. My hand found my bare stomach. I didn’t feel any different, but it was true, there was a life inside of me. A life other than my own. I was afraid to roll over. What if I hurt it? I knew logically that our child wasn’t even the size of a pea yet, but I was afraid. I fell into a dark sleep where cold hands grasped my arms and held me down. Something sharp stung my arm. A muddle of voices hummed beneath the bright lights, but I only heard my screams.

The next morning I woke in a mess of bedsheets and cold sweat. A cup of tea still warm sat beside my bed. It was 9:00. In two hours I’d be at the doctors. I stood and my legs turned to water. I couldn’t do it. There was no way. I’d faint or be sick, or both. I wrapped my figures around the mug, relishing the warmth. In the kitchen he sat reading the paper. When he saw my face he put it down. “It’s about the test isn’t it?” He asked and I crumbled. “I can’t do it” I sobbed in heaving, hiccuping breaths. 

“You can do it. You can do it for me and you can do it for our baby.” 

In the waiting room my hands shook and my teeth chattered. The smell of the room. The posters on the wall. Even the colour of the curtains. In that room I was seven years old again, burning with temperature and crying as needles were poked into me. Noting my paleness, his large hands made my own disappear. “Maisie Addams!” Called the nurse. The room spun. I was walking to the chopping block. His hands steadied me. I looked at my stomach and then back at him. I squeezed his hand and we walked in together.