NO CONTROL // Leonardo DiCaprio

Unexpected - Pt 9

 Monday

*Chloe's Pov* 

My stomach contracted so violently that I had no time to reach the toilet bowl. Vomit propelled from the mouth onto the floor, painting the carpet in chunks of food. I heaved once again the carpet was sprayed. I couldn't move forward without stepping on my own puke and feeling weak. I sank to my knees and hurled more vomit. My throat felt sore from the stomach acid, my mouth tasting of vomit. My eyes began watering, vomit filled my nostrils, only to make me throw up again. I tried carrying myself to the toilet bowl, burying my head in the bowl. I lurched forward again warm liquid projecting out my throat. It was a rare occurrence once I got sick. The last time I had threw up was when I was six. This could only mean one thing. 

I was pregnant 

The thought of possibly carrying Miles baby made me sick, literally. It had only been 2 days, you don't start showing symptoms until you're 4 - 6 weeks.  Maybe it was the leftover risotto I ate yesterday. I slumped next to the toilet, my emotions scattered all over the place. 

I finally took the courage to stand up. I stood face to face with me in the mirror. Mascara smudged my eyes, vomit half wiped on my face, red, puffy eyes and frizzy hair. I took a deep breath to ease my mind of the possibly that I was pregnant. 

I stepped into the shower, toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. My mind was in shreds, I would never forgive myself if it turned out that I was pregnant. I turned the old metallic dial, releasing thousands of lukewarm drops, dampening my hair and trickling down my back. My eyes fell closed over and over, each time showing me images of the possibility of motherhood and the relationship between me and Miles. 

I turned the knob and stepped out of the shower wrapping my towel around my body. I brushed my knotted hair into a ponytail. I rubbed the towel over my body to collect the rest of water droplets and dry myself off. I slipped on my undergarments and reached for a pair of track pants and an oversized shirt. I applied a facial cream and left my bathroom to clean up my mess. 

I grabbed my spray and worked it into the carpet and patted it down with paper towels, hoping to collect the vomit. I sprayed perfume to over power the smell and went downstairs to eat. 

I was greeted by my 13-year-old sister Lola. 

Her back was facing me. Putting pop-tarts in the toaster. 

"Can you make me some? I pleaded.

Her hair flicked around. She eyed me up down, her face scrunched up in disgust. 

"Why are you dressed like a hobo?" She smirked.

"Because I am tired and have no energy to look presentable." I sneered. 

"Whatever. So you're going to school like that?" She tended to her breakfast. 

"No, I feel sick." I snickered. 

"I'm telling Mum." She grinned.

"If you do you little brat, I will bash you."

"Woah, no need to get angry?" She put her hands up in defense. "Are you on your period or something?" She mumbled.

"No you little shit!" I yelled. 

"I was just asking." She muttered, putting her pop-tarts on a plate. "Oh and since you're being a bitch, you're not getting any pop-tarts." She jeered.

"Whatever, I'll buy my own." I scoffed. 

"Oh and Mum left 30 minutes ago and won't be home until 6:30 tonight. That means you're cooking dinner. " Lola spoke whilst shoving a pop-tart in her mouth.