The Scandal

7. Collapse

A/N: long chapter cause it's a big deal

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When I heard my Mom call my name, I knew the moment had arrived, and I felt the weight on my chest grow even heavier.

I got up from my place on my bed, and when my feet hit the floor, I felt like my legs wouldn't be able to support me. Like they'd give out, and I'd fall to the ground. I was shaking.

I opened the door, just a crack. I swallowed nervously before speaking. "Yeah?"

"Come down here." Mom's voice was cold.

I knew what would happen next. I knew what she'd make me do, and I wasn't ready. But there was no place to hide.

Dad's car pulled in the driveway just minutes before, and when I saw the headlights shine in my window, fear rose in me and clumped up at my throat, making me feel like I could just throw up all my insides. He shouldn't have been home so soon.

I knew there was no way around it, so I walked outside my room slowly, one baby step, then one baby step, then another. I felt like I was floating, but not in a good way.

I crept downstairs, holding the rail all the way.

My parents were both waiting on me at the bottom. I didn't even go all the way down, but stayed on the third to last step and just looked at my mother, waiting for her to tell me when to speak. She looked so angry. Or maybe just disappointed.

I didn't want to look at my Dad. I didn't want to see his expression, probably just one of confusion at that point.

He had no idea what would soon come out of his perfect daughter's perfect mouth.

"All right, now, Mark," my Mom said, speaking to my Dad. "Your daughter has something she has to tell you."

He looked at me. I felt his eyes examining my face, and I didn't want to meet them, but I forced myself.

I looked at him. My eyes started to tear up so immensely that I thought I would just burst into tears, falling to the floor and begging for his forgiveness, and probably God's and anyone else's that came to mind. But I needed to hold it together, at least for two words.

I breathed. "I'm pregnant."

His face shifted. I saw his skin pale and his eyes grow bigger. Then, he turned to the side, like my words were hitting him, hurting him physically and he couldn't face them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and tilted his head forward a little.

He was praying. He was calling on God to give him the strength he needed not to swear at the top of his lungs, or punch a hole in the wall. He did it a lot, in so many situations that I'd grown to see it in his face. The desperation that came with a prayer like that.

"Mark," Mom said his name quietly, like she was asking him to speak.

I didn't want him to speak. I was growing closer and closer to falling; I felt the weakness in my knees.

Dad's hand flew out behind him, a steady hand in Mom's direction. "Give me a minute," he said through gritted teeth.

He never spoke like that. A cold wave ran down my spine.

I stayed in place like a statue, one hand on the railing of the staircase. I felt small, like two inches from the floor, like I was staring up at my parents as a child, still unsure of the reality of the world.