The First Pregnancy
719 Words
The first sign was the sickness.
At first, I thought it was stress.
Damien and I had been fighting more often — about his temper, about Vanessa, about the bruises that kept appearing on my body no matter how careful I tried to be. My appetite disappeared, and every morning I woke up with my stomach twisting in strange, unfamiliar ways.
When I fainted at work one afternoon, my supervisor insisted I go to the pharmacy.
“Just check,” she said gently. “For peace of mind.”
I bought the test with shaking hands and hid it deep inside my bag, as if it could already see my fear.
That night, alone in the bathroom of my hostel, I stared at the small white stick like it was a weapon.
Two minutes.
That was all it took for my life to change.
Two pink lines.
My knees gave way, and I slid down the wall, pressing my hand against my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
Pregnant.
I was nineteen years old.
My first thought wasn’t joy.
It was Damien.
He was going to kill me.
Not with his hands — with his anger, his words, his disappointment.
For two days, I said nothing.
I walked around like a ghost, touching my stomach when no one was looking, whispering apologies to the tiny life growing inside me.
On the third night, I told him.
We were sitting in his car outside my hostel, the engine still running, the streetlights painting his face in shadows.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled. “You look serious. Did you finally decide you can’t live without me?”
I handed him the test.
At first, he didn’t understand what he was looking at.
Then his face changed.
The warmth drained from his eyes. His jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might c***k.
“This is not funny,” he said.
“I’m not joking,” I whispered. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence filled the car.
Long. Heavy. Terrifying.
“Get rid of it.”
The words fell from his mouth without hesitation.
I stared at him. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said sharply. “You can’t keep it.”
My chest started to hurt. “Damien… I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
He slammed his hand against the steering wheel.
“Do you know what this will do to my life?” he snapped. “To my career? My family?”
“I’m the one carrying it,” I said, tears spilling over. “I’m the one whose body—”
He turned to me suddenly, his eyes dark.
“Do you want your parents to disown you?” he asked quietly. “Do you want to drop out of school? Be a single mother at nineteen?”
I shook my head.
“Then fix it,” he said. “If you love me.”
That sentence destroyed me.
If you love me.
For the next week, he became someone else.
Gentle. Attentive. Caring.
He cooked for me. Called me every hour. Told me he would marry me one day, when the time was right.
“But not now,” he kept saying. “Not like this.”
He found a clinic.
Paid everything.
Held my hand at the door.
“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” he promised.
Inside, the air smelled like medicine and sadness.
The nurse didn’t look at my face.
The doctor didn’t ask if I was sure.
I lay on the cold bed, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding silently into my hair.
I whispered, “I’m sorry,” to the life I was losing.
When it was over, I felt empty.
Not just in my body.
In my soul.
Damien drove me back to my hostel in silence.
At the door, he kissed my forehead and said, “Now everything will be fine.”
That night, I waited for him to call.
He didn’t.
The next morning, I found out why.
Vanessa posted a picture on her status.
Damien’s hand was in the photo.
Holding hers.
My heart shattered into pieces so small I didn’t think I would ever collect them again.
- Writer
