The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Thirty six

"I think you should go to the hospital."
"Why?"
He looked down and away, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
He swallowed and still refused to look at me. My heart sank to its knees.
"You were drinking. You don't want it."
His eyes wouldn't meet mine, even though I pulled myself up onto my forearms and twisted my head to look up at him.
Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want my baby.
"We're not ready," he tried to explain, his gazing flitting around the room as if searching for someone to help him.
I couldn't find words. My heart was loud and yet so slow in my ears.
"Maybe one day. But we're too young."
Finally he looked at me, frantically, begging for some kind of sign that I agreed. And instantly he was gone again, gesturing with his hands as he continued to explain. But his words blurred out and faded as my blood crashed in my ears and my vision turned fuzzy and dark. I felt as if I was about to faint.
He noticed, grew quiet. His warm hand closed over mine.
"I'm sorry," he whispered shakily, and I understood that he was panicking, fighting to keep his head above water.
It hit me. He was right. We could barely take care of ourselves.
"It's OK," is all I managed. I lay down and curled myself into a tight ball of fear and sorrow. I closed my eyes and prayed that he takes the hint and leaves it alone.