syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
Walking through the door after another day of pointlessness, she is sitting on your couch smoking and listening to the stereo. One look at her and you can tell she has been crying. Her red puffy eyes and the smoke from her cigarette make her look as if she fell for every broken promise ever told. Although there is nothing you find more attractive in a woman than unhappiness, that quiet sad beauty, right now all you want is a well deserved drink.
You kiss the top of her head without asking what’s wrong and move toward the kitchen where the whiskey is waiting. She doesn’t say anything and only offers a weary sad smile. You pour yourself a whiskey and take a good long hit. You motion toward the bottle asking without saying anything if she wants some.
She shakes her head slowly at first, then faster as she begins to cry again.
You go to her and put your arms around her as she lays her head on your chest and cries harder. Whatever it is that’s causing the tears you don’t want to know about it. You just want to lie to her and tell her everything is going to be ok. You just want her to stop. You just need one day where your existence doesn’t cause the world more pain. You want just one day where you haven’t torn someone’s dreams apart. Just one normal day
I’m preuognapiont, she says into your chest and through her tears.
You gently push her back by her small shoulders and tell her to calm down.
What did you say?
I’M PREGANT, she screams loud enough to make your ears ring.
She buries her face in her hands, and continues to cry. You reach for your whiskey and drain the glass. Just one normal day you think.
Say something, she says, face still buried in her hands, her tears wetting her palms.
Fuck.
Say something else.
Much like every other conversation you never know what to say. So you do as you always have and drown the words before they have a chance to come out.
She continues crying while you take long pulls straight from the now diminishing bottle of whiskey. Not knowing what else to say you finally ask, what are you going to do?
She stares at you without saying anything and the hate behind those pale blue eyes is unmistakable.
You really are a fucking inconsiderate asshole. What am I going to do? How about what the fuck are WE going to do?
Sweetie, all I meant was ultimately it’s your decision.
My decision, huh?
You know how I feel about kids. I can barely take care of myself. I won’t force my twisted soul onto an innocent person.
Grabbing her cigarettes she storms out of the room, like the spoiled child she is.
You sit with your bottle of whiskey and smoke a couple of cigarettes of your own. Lost in the thoughts of what a horrible father you would be, you don’t notice her standing beside you.
You think I should get rid of it, she asks.
It would probably be best for everyone involved, you admit.
And if I decide to keep it?
Then it will be your baby.
You lousily bastard.
Don’t you think every child deserves to be wanted, you ask?
She doesn’t answer and sits down beside you.
Relaxing in bed the night before the procedure she is reading the little pamphlets the nurse had given her.
The heart beat begins between the eighteenth and twenty-fifth day. Our baby has a heartbeat, she says
Please stop with this shit.
At twenty-eight days eye, ear and respiratory system has begun to form. Our baby can hear us. It’s breathing.
Please don’t.
Electrical brain waves have been recorded as early as forty days. Our baby is already thinking of us.
Honey, we’ve been over this and over this. With all the chemicals we have pumped into our bodies, you’ve got to know this is the best thing. Neither of us is ready.
You’re not ready, she says as she rolls over and turns her back to you.
You turn out the light, but of course you can’t sleep, so you get up and head for the whiskey.
You are awakened on the couch by the sunlight steaming in from the blinds, and you know by the still and quiet of the house she is gone. Your head is pounding from all the whiskey as you search the house for any sign of her. No note and most of her things are gone as well. As you spot the whiskey and turn up the last sip, you think it’s all probably for the best. Now maybe you’ll get that normal day.
You kiss the top of her head without asking what’s wrong and move toward the kitchen where the whiskey is waiting. She doesn’t say anything and only offers a weary sad smile. You pour yourself a whiskey and take a good long hit. You motion toward the bottle asking without saying anything if she wants some.
She shakes her head slowly at first, then faster as she begins to cry again.
You go to her and put your arms around her as she lays her head on your chest and cries harder. Whatever it is that’s causing the tears you don’t want to know about it. You just want to lie to her and tell her everything is going to be ok. You just want her to stop. You just need one day where your existence doesn’t cause the world more pain. You want just one day where you haven’t torn someone’s dreams apart. Just one normal day
I’m preuognapiont, she says into your chest and through her tears.
You gently push her back by her small shoulders and tell her to calm down.
What did you say?
I’M PREGANT, she screams loud enough to make your ears ring.
She buries her face in her hands, and continues to cry. You reach for your whiskey and drain the glass. Just one normal day you think.
Say something, she says, face still buried in her hands, her tears wetting her palms.
Fuck.
Say something else.
Much like every other conversation you never know what to say. So you do as you always have and drown the words before they have a chance to come out.
She continues crying while you take long pulls straight from the now diminishing bottle of whiskey. Not knowing what else to say you finally ask, what are you going to do?
She stares at you without saying anything and the hate behind those pale blue eyes is unmistakable.
You really are a fucking inconsiderate asshole. What am I going to do? How about what the fuck are WE going to do?
Sweetie, all I meant was ultimately it’s your decision.
My decision, huh?
You know how I feel about kids. I can barely take care of myself. I won’t force my twisted soul onto an innocent person.
Grabbing her cigarettes she storms out of the room, like the spoiled child she is.
You sit with your bottle of whiskey and smoke a couple of cigarettes of your own. Lost in the thoughts of what a horrible father you would be, you don’t notice her standing beside you.
You think I should get rid of it, she asks.
It would probably be best for everyone involved, you admit.
And if I decide to keep it?
Then it will be your baby.
You lousily bastard.
Don’t you think every child deserves to be wanted, you ask?
She doesn’t answer and sits down beside you.
Relaxing in bed the night before the procedure she is reading the little pamphlets the nurse had given her.
The heart beat begins between the eighteenth and twenty-fifth day. Our baby has a heartbeat, she says
Please stop with this shit.
At twenty-eight days eye, ear and respiratory system has begun to form. Our baby can hear us. It’s breathing.
Please don’t.
Electrical brain waves have been recorded as early as forty days. Our baby is already thinking of us.
Honey, we’ve been over this and over this. With all the chemicals we have pumped into our bodies, you’ve got to know this is the best thing. Neither of us is ready.
You’re not ready, she says as she rolls over and turns her back to you.
You turn out the light, but of course you can’t sleep, so you get up and head for the whiskey.
You are awakened on the couch by the sunlight steaming in from the blinds, and you know by the still and quiet of the house she is gone. Your head is pounding from all the whiskey as you search the house for any sign of her. No note and most of her things are gone as well. As you spot the whiskey and turn up the last sip, you think it’s all probably for the best. Now maybe you’ll get that normal day.
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