The Seven Husbands of Taylor Swift

14

TAYLOR SWIFT
Days blurred together as I recovered in the hospital. The extent of my injuries was shocking: three broken teeth, countless bruises and scrapes, severe vaginal tearing, a ruptured eardrum, a urinary tract infection, a concussion, twelve stitches, a black eye, and a fractured ankle.

Cops were a constant presence in my room, their presence constantly reminded me of what had happened. Social workers and therapists tried to reach me, but I built a wall around myself. I couldn't bring myself to give up Jake's name. Fear consumed me. The thought of him finding me, of him hurting me or someone I cared about, paralyzed me. Harry became my rock, his presence a comforting anchor. He was the one who found me on the side of the road, on the brink of death. I trusted him implicitly.

The reality of my situation sunk in: no money, nowhere to go. The doctors confirmed I was nearly seven weeks pregnant, a revelation that filled me with a mix of terror and uncertainty. The decision of whether or not to terminate the pregnancy loomed over me. The day of the ultrasound arrived, and with it, a wave of dread. Harry's presence offered some comfort, but the fear was overwhelming.

The cold gel was slick against my skin as the doctor inserted the wand. The image on the screen was a blur at first, then slowly a shape emerged, a tiny flicker of life. My heart pounded in my ears. Was this what I wanted? The image was so small, so fragile. A tiny heartbeat pulsed on the screen, a steady rhythm that filled the room.

Harry squeezed my hand, his touch a grounding force. I looked away, unable to process what I was seeing. A part screamed in terror at the enormity of what was growing inside me.

The doctor cleared her throat, the sound jarring in the quiet room. "There's a strong heartbeat," she said, her voice gentle. "Everything looks normal for this stage." Her words hung in the air, heavy with implications.

I felt a lump form in my throat. Normal. A word so ordinary, yet so loaded with meaning in this moment. Normal meant healthy. Normal meant possible. But normal also meant responsibility, commitment. A future I hadn't planned for.

The weight of the decision pressed down on me. I looked at Harry, seeking his support. He squeezed my hand tighter, his eyes filled with understanding.

"I... I need some time," I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible. The doctor nodded, her expression sympathetic. She gave me a moment, then gently suggested I discuss my options with a counselor.

A heavy silence settled between us as I stared out the sterile hospital window. The world outside seemed so distant, so removed from the turmoil inside me. Finally, I turned to Harry, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't know what to do," I confessed.

His gaze met mine, filled with a mixture of concern and understanding. "About the baby?" He asked, his voice gentle.

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. The weight of the decision pressed down on me, crushing any semblance of hope.

Harry hesitated, his expression thoughtful. "Can I be honest with you?" He asked cautiously.

I took a deep breath. "Please," I replied, my voice trembling slightly.

"I'm confused about why you're even considering keeping it," he began, his words careful but direct. "You almost died because you didn't want this baby. You've been through hell with him."

His words were a cold splash of reality, cutting through the fog of indecision that clouded my mind. I felt a wave of nausea, a physical manifestation of the turmoil within. "I know," I managed to choke out, my voice barely audible. "I just... I don't know. It feels like it's been forced on me for so long."

Harry reached out and took my hand, his touch a comforting anchor in the storm. "But that's exactly it," he said softly. "It was forced on you. You don't have to do this. You don't owe anyone a baby, especially not him."