Because She is Female

Two red lines taunt her as she stares at the plastic stick. She isn't surprised. Three more identical tests are scattered by her feet. Six red lines, now two more. The man behind her at the pharmacy had given her a smile as she checked out. Congrats, was what he had said. The woman behind the counter had given her a sad smile and wished her good luck. Now, alone in her bathroom, she looks around at the green and yellow tiled walls, the striped shower curtain, the overflowing trash can, the box of tampons on the radiator. Her brother had been nagging her to put them in the closet. It looks so female, he had complained. She had rolled her eyes. I'm female, was her retort. Now, more than ever, she recognizes the truth in that statement. Yes, because she is female there is a box of tampons in her bathroom. Because she is female there are positive pregnancy tests on the floor. And because she is female in the state of Alabama she feels trapped inside her own body. Her heart is racing now, beating a violent tattoo against her rib cage. She clenches and unclechlenches her hands, her nails digging into her palms, the test falling onto the tiles. She doesn't know what do. She can't have this thing inside of her. She can't eat without feeding the monster that did this to her. She can't sleep without being plauged with memories of Him, his hands on her, his breath reeking of alchohol, his body pinning her down as she beats against his chest. He ignores her cries, her pleads of no, of stop, of don't touch me. She screams until her throat is raw, she screams for someone, anyone, to help her, to save her. She sobs and kicks and claws at Him. She has turned feral, because her flight and fight reflexes have kicked in but she can't run, she can't escape, so she fights with every inch of her being against the monster that has her in his clutches. He curls a hand around her throat and tightens it, crushing her windpipe.
    "Shut. Up." His voice is soft and so so dangerous. And as she looks up into the eyes of the boy she once loved she knows. She knows that he will stop at nothing to make her silent, that he will hurt her, that he will kill her- His hand tightens and she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't breathe-
    Her hands grip the edge of the toilet and tears spill down her cheeks. Her whole body shakes with sobs as the memories come pouring down on her like hail, biting her bare skin like a stinging kiss. She feels dirty, violated. She feels as if someone has taken her ownership of her body out of her hands. And she hates it. Because it is true. Because men behind desks think they have the right to make decisoins about her body. They think that they can tell her what she can and can't do, because in their minds, she is just a statistic, a careless girl who got herself knocked up. She can press charges all she wants but she knows nothing will happen. She will say he hurt me, and they'll roll their eyes and reply he was your boyfriend. She will cry he raped me, and they will cross their arms and say, what were you wearing. They will tell her that she was drunk and that her dress was too short and that she should have been more careful. That she was asking for it. They'll let him off with a warning and punish her for underage drinking. And then she will have to live with a nightmare in the form of a lump of cells that is growing inside her body.

And she can't do anything about it. She is one of the thousands of girls who have lost their ownership of their bodies. She is one of the thousands of girls who have been told that they were asking for it. She is one of the thousands of girls who have been forced to deal with the taunts and the whispers and the stares. She has become a statistic that future wellness teachers will put on the board and tell students to copy down. No one realizes that that number is made up of people, of girls like her who are called sluts in the bathroom and feel caged in their own skin.

    She feels lost. Like she is stuck in an unending maze, and every turn is another weight in the pit of her stomach. Her body trembles with each step. A clock ticks in the background, counting down the minutes. Counting down the minutes until she explodes.

    She is confused. When have the rights of her body become a political debate? When have the rights of her body been decided by middle-aged men? When have the rights of her body been taken away from her?

    When will it stop?

    When will America move forward instead of backward?

    When will she be able to look in the mirror and call her body her own?

    When?