Trigger Warning

Chapter One

The tile was cold on my feet. I was always barefoot-- shoes seemed too restricting.

The once-white walls were stained a dingy cream color. The bathtub had a slight amount of mold growing in the corner. I looked down at my feet; the chubby little sausages I called toes were decorated a red color, the polish already chipping.

Cheap nail polish does that.

Three knocks on the door made me jump. "Have you pissed yet?" Clarissa's nasally voice called. I hadn't quite yet, but I knew the response I would get if I told Clarissa that, so I stayed silent. A moment passed, and I heard her dramatically sigh.

"Come on, Stasia. We have to find out."

I opened the box with shaky hands. I had been sitting on the toilet for nearly half an hour-- everything below my knees was numb.

I read the instructions six times, each time the words not soaking in.

Just piss on the stick, dammit. I told myself. Just do it.

So I did. Then I said the stick on the counter, and ran out of the bathroom.

Clarissa was sitting in the floor, just to the left of the bathroom door. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and her arms dangled lazily next to her sides.

Her bleach blonde hair was matted down, and her mascara was in gray streaks down her cheeks.

"Why are you upset?" I asked. I plopped down next to her, and she took my hand in hers. Her nails looked as if they had been gnawed on.

We sat in silence, and her head was rested upon my shoulder.

Clarissa was always this dramatic. She cried over failed history tests, uninterested girls, sad movies, and homeless puppies.

She was sassy too. Clarissa was very pretentious, and very impatient.

Yet, despite all her personality flaws, Clarissa was nearly my only friend-- my best friend, at that. I pulled away, and glanced over at her. She had her eyes squeezed shut, and she looked so sleepy. The dark purple rings beneath her eyes seemed to darken with each look I took at her.

"How long until you know?" Clarissa asked. Her voice was shaky. I shrugged.

Clarissa sighed, her trademark of frustration. She stood up, dusted herself off, and went into the bathroom.

Clarissa was built very narrow-- she had long, skinny legs, lanky, frail arms, and board-flat everything.

Clarissa only let a select few see her without makeup, and I was one of them. She was obsessed with her appearance, which, to be fair, I would be too if I were a model.

She doesn't do vogue or anything, but Clarissa does local ads for the places in the tri-state area.

Clarissa came out of the bathroom moments later, her makeup reapplied and her hair back to its beautiful voluminous self.

"It says wait thirteen to eighteen minutes," Clarissa waved the empty box around in the air.

"How long has it been?" I asked. Clarissa sighed dramatically, and then swallowed.

"Four minutes," she pulled her phone out of her back pocket, and pressed the button at the top. "Now five."

She walked into the kitchen, so I followed. Her kitchen was painted an olive green, with dark brown accents. Everything in their kitchen was dark brown-- the plates, the counters, the barstools. Clarissa's mom was an interior decorator.

She died six years ago, she had a brain aneurism. Clarissa chooses not to talk about it.

Her dad always does, though. It pisses Clarissa off.

I took a seat on one of the barstools, and wiped off some dust that had collected on the counter.

"How about sandwiches as we wait?" Clarissa suggested. I wasn't hungry, but I nodded anyway. We ate our sandwiches in a comfortable silence; only our chewing and the hum of the refrigerator were audible. Clarissa finished her sandwich in like three bites; she ate like a horse.

"It's time," she uttered. I nodded, and sat the sandwich I was nearly finished eating on the counter. I hopped off the barstool and led the now-shaking Clarissa down the hall, and into the bathroom.

Clarissa was hyperventilating,and violently shaking with nervousness. I grabbed her hand and sat her down on the toilet.

"Everything is going to be okay, Rissa. No matter what." I kissed her forehead, a symbol of comfort. Her breathing regulated, and her violent shaking reduced to a dull vibration.

I took a deep breath, the air rattling my lungs, and picked up the intimidating small, white stick.

I'm pregnant.