Bad Sister

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗

My father always told us; A little prayer and forgiveness goes a long way.

And as I think about it I find myself sitting on the edge of my bed with my clasped hands shaking.

I take a deep breath and slowly, my nerves cool down.

Where do I start?

I feel a dull aching behind my eyes when I look at the ceiling trying not to cry, but I can only try so hard.

"God," I breathe. Two seconds in and this is starting to seem stupid. But why me?

Suddenly my heart feels like it's about to burst out of my chest and I flinch, pressing my eyes shut. I convince myself that it can't hurt to try.

But, what do I say? How do I start?

It's been a while.

My tongue is heavy in my mouth and I swear my jaw has been screwed shut.

Oh fuck this. Why am I even doing this? It's not like anything is going to change.

I'm barely up on my feet when Randall bursts into the room without knocking.

Instantly I'm taken back to Friday morning when I woke up to the sight of him standing by the window. But just as soon as I see it, I'm confronted by my guilt.

-by the events of that night. And I thought being pregnant would be the hardest part.

"How are you holding up?" He looks down, hands awkwardly buried in the pockets of his slacks.

My chest quakes and I find it harder to breathe every passing second. It feels as though someone has my lungs in a death grip. I can't stop shaking for more than two minutes.

Maybe if I get up.

Doing so, I take a step closer to Randall, biting on my nail as I cross an arm over my chest.

"Please tell me you got it." I look at him, hopeful and desperate. He inches towards me, leaving enough space for me to breathe.

His hazel eyes bore into mine and in the light I notice just how different they are; the left one being greener than the other.

Randall then reaches into his blazer and holds a little tube between his thump and index finger.

He shakes it and the pills rattle. "I hope you know that I don't support this."

I want to cry when he says that, I want to scream and throw around everything I can get my hands on, but I ground my jaw and reach for the bottle.

He pulls it away, holding it higher. Ah, I feel my frustration grow. I should kick him in the nuts.

An aching erupts in my head when I jump with my hand stretched out. Fuck this.

"Randall, give me the bottle," I say sternly. He gives me an intimidating look that prompts me to be nicer. "Please."

I shy away from him in defeat when he doesn't quickly respond. I want to tell him that I'm hurting, everywhere; my skin is weak and crawling with little fire ants. Even worse, I feel empty. My stomach feels empty and flat.

Most of all, I don't want to be alone. I can't do this alone. I used have life growing in me, literally.

Maybe I'm not ready to be a mother. To be honest, I can't see myself taking care of a little child. Just the image alone crumbles with the baby wailing and falling out of my arms.