I just realized it yesterday, when I should have started hearing "Jeez, it's only underwear on your handlebars, don't be such a bitch about it" from Kendra and "Watch it, Boo, or you'll wake up engaged" from Cindy.  But all I've gotten is "Cool it with the anchovies, Boo, or somebody'll think you're knocked up."

I'm not in heat this time around.  The anchovies are because I *am* knocked up.

And it took me three months to notice something wrong. That's what gets me.  Three months to realize what I'd done. Three months to regret the last time I was in heat and the hormone-fogged judgement and too much beer and gorgeous man and seduction and night spent in his bed screwing.  Three months . . . between me and him.

He was on his way out of town.  Wanted for drug trafficking, cops coming too close.  One last fling in Seattle before he headed south.  What an idiot you are, Max--look at the scum you fool around with.  Not that I could never find him--but there's more important things.

Like this baby.  It's three months old now.  It should be moving inside me soon, I think.

What do I do?

I could have the baby alone.  But I don't make enough money to support a baby, and having a baby to take care of would keep me from stealing things to fence to make ends meet. And I'm a squatter--if any other cop inspects the building, or if Walter gets pissed off, I'm out on the streets.  And what do you do with a baby while you're out delivering packages, or prowling around swiping valuables?

I could have the baby, and give it to someone else.  Natalie offered. . . . but she can't always be there, and I wouldn't trust her hubby-to-be Sketchy with a baby.  And I don't want to give my baby to total strangers at an adoption agency.

What else is there?  Abortion?  It's not too late for an abortion . . . but . . . It's mine.  It's my baby.  It's
alive. It's a miracle that I could conceive at all, with my screwed-up hash of animal and human DNA.  I swear, there's no way that my reproductive system should be compatible with human sperm.  It's amazing what's inside of me now.  And I don't want to end it.

I could get married.  Logan offered.  He asked about the tear stains on my face and my red eyes, and I told him what happened.  And he offered to marry me.  He's rich.  It's as safe in his house than out here on the streets, and his place has heat and food and nice furniture and everything a person needs. . . . But I don't think he really meant it when he offered--it was only because I'm having a baby, and I'm supposed to get married quick so nobody will know that my child's a bastard and I'm a whore.  Screw that.  I can't
believe people still think that way.  I won't marry Logan--or anybody--just to look like something I'm not.

But what else can I do?  Don't have the baby, have it alone, give it to somebody else, get someone to have it with. There's only four choices.

It's all so simple.

So why is it so hard to decide?
 
 

[ END ]