A Selection of Monologues and Short Stories

The Surrogate

Fleeing down the stairs, I hear the incessant bleeping of the train doors, telling me they're about to close and leave. I pick up the pace and slide through the doors at the last second. My lungs rid the breath I was unaware of holding and I relax slightly, taking in the odour of sweaty bodies mingled with cigarette smoke and fast food grease.

"D'you want this seat love?" I turn towards the tall, bald man addressing me. I smile down at him and shake my head.

"It's alright thanks." I shift my weight from one foot to the other and turn so my back leans against the cool glass of the divider. Deep down I know I want that seat. My back feels as though I'm carrying heavy luggage without the option to out it down for a rest, the ever increasing pressure on my spine. My feet are feeling the strain from the extra load, throbbing, sore, and swollen against the strap of my shoes.

But I daren't say yes.

The last time I said yes, led me to my present situation. I was stupid to think that things would be as easy as he made them out to be. I was stupid to think that he would 'stick around'. I was stupid to not terminate this pregnancy from the word go.

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"C'mon love! It'll be fun! It'll be like what we always talked about as little'ns! We can do this! We're big kids now!"

"Look, I just don't think we're ready."

"Of course we're ready darlin'. Where'd all this crap come from? I thought this was what you wanted? What we wanted?"

"You may be ready, but I'm not. I'm the one who has to carry the sodding thing for nine months."

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The opening of the train doors beside me brings me back to the present. I stumble off the train and continue on my journey. Naturally, I place my hand on my swollen balloon of a stomach.

"Only a few more weeks now, then you're gone." Emotions flood through me like a wave. A mixture of relief, sadness, anger, affection, all at once. What will it look like? Whose eyes? My green or his blue? Will it have my brown locks or his strawberry blonde? I ascend the stairs slowly, a pang of disgust at the lack of escalator. I waddle into the cold, overcast day of London. Reaching into the back pocket of my stretchy maternity jeans, I pull out a scrap of paper with an address scrawled onto it and hail a cab.

Once seated, and as comfortable as a heavily pregnant woman can be, I gingerly lean forward and hand the driver the piece of paper. He gives me a nod and pulls away. Staring out of the window, I let my mind wander, creating scenarios and questions in my head. Both rational and irrational. Many, I don't have the answers to, and can't begin to comprehend. But one keeps pushing to the front of the hums and whirs. One which gives me hope and confidence in my decision.

'It'll be OK. He'll be OK. She'll be OK.'

Sensing my gradual anxiety, it decides to have an input in my inward conversation by giving me four sharp kicks to my ribcage. Attempting to shove all other thoughts back, so as to save myself from a further beating, I clear my mind and focus on the present. I look down at myself. Protruding belly. Stick-like legs. Boney hands. I look nothing like I used to. My fair skin still looks the same, dotted with freckles all over my arms. Great.

"'Ere we are Ma'am. D'you need a hand getting out?" I look up to see a plump faced, beaming man looking at me kindly. I nod reluctantly, knowing I'd rather be helped out than make a fool of myself trying to roll out. The driver comes round and gestures his hand out. I hold it tightly and he heaves me up. I thank him and hand him the fare. With a touch of his cap, he's back in the cab and gone from sight down the road. How I'd love to be able to just leave a place so fast no-one would know you'd even been there. I turn to look at the towering building before me.