The Choice He Forced
825 Words
After the abortion, something inside Damien changed.
Or maybe it was simply that I finally began to see him clearly.
He stopped calling me every morning.
Stopped sending long messages about how much he loved me.
When we met, his eyes were always tired, distant, as if I were already becoming a burden he wished he could put down.
And still… he wanted my body.
Every time he touched me, it was rougher than before.
Like anger had replaced desire.
Sometimes I would freeze beneath him, staring at the ceiling, my mind far away from my body, waiting for it to end.
Once, when I whispered, “Please, you’re hurting me,” he tightened his grip and said, “You like it. Stop pretending.”
Afterward, I lay curled on the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet around myself, my thighs burning, my wrists aching.
He stood up, dressed, and walked away without a word.
No kiss.
No comfort.
No apology.
The bruises came faster now.
I learned how to hide them — long sleeves, thick stockings, excuses about falling down the stairs.
But inside, I was bleeding in ways no one could see.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I woke up crying for the child I had lost.
Damien never noticed.
He was always on his phone.
Smiling at messages that were not meant for me.
One evening, weeks later, I finally asked the question that had been burning inside my chest.
“Are you still seeing Vanessa?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
That was all the answer I needed.
“She’s just confused,” he said finally. “She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
But the way he avoided my eyes told a different story.
The truth came slowly, like poison.
He started disappearing for days.
Turning off his phone.
Coming back smelling like another woman’s perfume.
Once, I found a strand of long black hair on his pillow.
My hair was short.
When I confronted him, he shouted.
“You’re imagining things!” he said. “You’re becoming paranoid since the abortion.”
He blamed my pain on my hormones.
On my weakness.
On my jealousy.
And I believed him.
Because loving him had already taught me how to doubt myself.
Then my body betrayed me again.
It started with dizziness.
With nausea.
With a strange tiredness that wrapped around my bones.
I told myself it was stress.
Grief.
But deep inside, I already knew.
When the test showed two lines again, I didn’t cry.
I laughed.
A hollow, broken sound that scared even me.
Not again.
Not him.
Not this life.
This time, I didn’t tell Damien immediately.
For three days, I walked around with the secret burning inside me.
For three days, I imagined running away.
Keeping the baby.
Starting a new life far away from him.
But fear won.
It always did.
When I finally told him, he stared at me in silence.
Then he smiled.
And that smile terrified me more than his anger ever had.
“You’re joking,” he said softly.
I shook my head.
“Again?” he whispered.
He stood up, pacing the room, running his hands through his hair.
“This is a disaster,” he said. “An absolute disaster.”
I watched him, my hands trembling over my stomach.
“What do you want to do?” I asked quietly.
He stopped in front of me.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Those words felt like a sentence.
“No,” I whispered. “I can’t go through that again.”
He knelt in front of me, holding my face in his hands.
“Listen to me,” he said gently. “This time will be easy. I know a better doctor. No pain. No stress. We’ll forget it ever happened.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I want to keep it,” I said.
His face hardened.
“If you keep this baby, I will leave you,” he said calmly.
The room spun.
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
“I’m not ready to be a father,” he said. “And I won’t ruin my life for a mistake.”
A mistake.
That was what my child had become.
I cried.
Begged.
Held his legs the same way he had once held mine when he begged me not to leave.
He watched me without emotion.
Finally, exhausted and empty, I nodded.
“I’ll do it,” I whispered.
The second abortion was worse than the first.
The pain lasted longer.
The emptiness deeper.
This time, Damien didn’t even wait for me at the clinic.
He sent me money and a short message.
I’m busy today. Call me later.
That night, lying alone in my bed, bleeding and shaking, I realized something terrible.
He did not love me.
He was only afraid of the consequences of loving me.
And still…
I stayed.
- Writer
