Dead Angelica Version 20 *-* You Ripped My Heart Out Of Me, Then You Put It Back
A Baby?! Chapter 3- "Blood-Red Moon"
I can only stare at her, in complete and utter shock. I have never seen my neat, organised, quiet girlfriend like this; almost like the sick animals I have been known to rescue from the wild.
"Billy," she whispers. "Can I come in?"
Trembling, I unlock the door and help her inside. I put my finger to my lips- my sister is staying at her friend's tonight, but I have a feeling Mom is asleep.
Jessy half-collapses in the hallway, and I have to almost carry her upstairs. She's not heavy, but then again I'm not exactly the strongest person in the world; so by the time I've laid her down on my bed, I'm exhausted and have to sit down. Shit, she looks terrible- pale and worn-out.
When I've got my breath back, I ask her what's going on.
"Billy, I couldn't have a baby. It would have ruined my life."
I start to nod. Wait... wait a minute. Why is she using the past tense?
"What... what do you mean?" I ask, my mouth dry. God I want a tall, cold glass of water.
Jessy answers my question, but she's not really talking to me, only kind of murmuring to herself.
"So stupid... I had to get it out, get it out of me, far far away... so I took Rosie out..."
Okay, now I'm confused. Rosie?! What the hell does her aunt's horse have to do with anything?
"Smash!" she babbles on. "Rosie went fast, fast fast like... like an aeroplane and I jumped, smash! Smash on the grounf and out came baby... No! Not baby! It... it was an it, and now it's gone, hooray! Out. I'm going to be sick."
And she gets up and stumbles into our washroom, and I can hear her throw up. I walk over to her.
"You killed our baby?"
She looks up at me, compos mentis again.
"I had to, Billy. You understand, don't you?"
"You had no right!" I whisper, in the harshest tone possible.
"Maybe I should just go home, then, if that's the way you feel. I don't want to talk to you while you're in this mood. Be sensible, Billy, we could never have kept that baby."
I don't want to talk about it. "I'll lend you a pair of jeans and walk you home."
"You don't have to walk me home. I don't wanna go home. I'll sleep on the streets tonight then."
"Don't be silly, Jessy. Home is where you need to be right now, tucked up in your own bed. And I can't let you walk home on your own, can I? And you need to tell your mother."
"No!" she says, so violently that I have to clap my hand over her mouth to stop her waking my own mom.
"Someone needs to look after you tonight, Jess. And it won't be me, 'cos right now I am so angry that I can barely look at you. I'm taking you home."
"You're not angry," she says, a little unsteadily. She flushes the toilet, rinses out her mouth quickly and walks into my room. I follow her, pulling out a pair of jeans and handing them to her. I sit on my bed facing the wall while she pulls them on.
"I am angry, Jess. I'm being calm because I know that if I let my anger through I will never stop screaming. That was our baby. Half of it was me and you had no right, none at all, to decide that you wanted to destroy that baby. Are you done? We're leaving now."
"Yeah, I'm done," she says softly. She gathers up her jeans and walks out the door, me following in mute, strained silence.
When we get to her house, I make her promise to tell her mother, although I know she won't. What I'm doing right now- leaving my girlfriend and not supporting her when she needs me- is callous and evil, but guess what? She'll survive.
My baby didn't survive.
I can hardly even look at her any more, this smart beautiful girl who I was proud to call my girlfriend yesterday. I know that as soon as I open my mouth in condemnation, all of my angry bitter feelings will come tumbling out.
I leave her, but I don't go home yet. I don't feel like I can cope anymore. I walk over to the little Waldorf playground and sit on one of the swings.
And the tears tumble out. I'm just sitting here, crying and crying. What the hell is wrong with me?
I've always been a freak. Once I had this massive fight with my dad over my makeup, after some guy beat me up 'cos of it. They both said I was a queer, and 'not-right' and all this shit. I said nothing to the guy, I wish I had, but anyway. I told my dad that I was his son, and he should accept me whatever I was, and I wasn't gay anyway.
I'm not gay, at least I don't think so. I just like makeup. I'd rather sit and play guitar than get dirty on the football field. My dad asked me why I made it so hard on myself, why did I add to my troubles by being the only guy in school who wears eyeliner.
But I don't think I should let other people dictate over me, tell me what to do. I believe in free expression. Sure, life would be easier if I looked and acted like everyone else, but conformity is too high a price to pay for an easy life.
I want to be special. I believe everyone is born special, but when you try to be like other people you lose your uniqueness, your specialness.
I want to conquer the world. I want people to respect me and admire me for who I am and what I have achieved.
Fuck!! Ouch. I just fell off the swing. Jeez I am clumsy.
I dry my eyes on the sleeve of my Silverchair hoodie and allow myself to sniff. Mom's not here to tell me otherwise.
I'm only 17. And yet I created life. I would have been a good father. Really. My baby deserved a chance, surely?
But she, she, Jessica, she destroyed that human not-quite-yet-being inside of her in one fell swoop. She jumped off a horse and caused her own spontaneous abortion. She bled that baby out of her, on her own. She must have been so desperate.
But why, Jessy? There were other options. There are always other options.
A life is a life; who are you to decide if that life should be born or not?
To all intents and purposes, Jess, you murdered our baby callousy. How could you? I would never have been able to live with myself.
That one question keeps circulating in my head- why, why, why.
It's one of those funny moons tonight, the red one. Harvest moon.
And it seems to symbolise death, that red moon. The blood of our innocent baby, shed in the name of reputation or convenience or whatever Jess killed it for.
I run home and cry softly into my pillow for hours, and then I proceed to have bad dreams all night.
And when I wake up in the morning, it has snowed. Fresh, white, pure snow; no more blood-red moon.
But no amount of snow could cover the sin of killing an innocent soul.
And I know what I have to do.
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