I was in a daze as the doctor explained the need for prenatal care and vitamins I had to take. Congratulating me, when all I wanted to do was breakdown and cry. We’d always taken precautions, me more so than Beau, so I’ve been on the contraceptive injection since leaving Chicago. The last thing I need is to get pregnant, stuck in my soul destroying life with Beau, and living away from my best friend and parents.
Now life has decided that I need one more challenge.
I drove home from the clinic in a daze, a myriad of possibilities running through my head. The doctor, sensing that I was none too happy with this unexpected news, gave me brochures on my different options. Termination or adoption. Then there is option C; staying in my dysfunctional relationship with my possessive, emotionally abusive boyfriend and raising a baby with him. Those are my options.
Fan-freakin-tastic.
That is why I’m sitting here on the couch, waiting for the bomb to drop. I can even remember the exact night of conception. It was the night of my twentieth birthday. We’d been out to our local bar, drinking shots of tequila and beer, and dancing to the jukebox in the corner. Beau said that it was my treat since it was my birthday. He’d even invited a couple of his new ‘friends’ to join us. We’d caught a cab home and stumbled in the door. Beau got that tell-tale look in his eye which signaled he was up to no good. Soon, I was bent over the side of the couch, ass in the air, with Beau pounding into me from behind. I was too drunk to fight it, or wonder whether he was using protection or not.
I was too far gone.
A bit like I am now. I’m too far gone to think about this rationally or carefully. I know there are other options, but with Beau Gregory in my life it is not worth even considering.
Beau arrives home late, a few hours after he would have finished work. I can tell that he’s already been drinking by the stench of stale beer that surrounds him as he kisses me long and hard to say hello. He’s only that affectionate when he’s buzzed.
All night I’ve been talking myself into telling him about the baby. I walk over to the couch and sit down.
“Beau, I’ve got something to tell you,” I say, being careful to keep my tone as steady and emotionless as possible.
“What is it, baby?” he asks through half-opened eyes as he lies on the couch across my lap.
“I’m pregnant.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the time it took for my words to sink in, but as soon as they did, I could see the change in his face. He sits up suddenly, giving me a fright.
“What the f**k are you talking about?” he bellows, jumping off the couch and pacing the room.
“I’m pregnant, about eight weeks,” I say, standing to my feet in front of him, unable to look him in the eye. Why do I feel like this is my fault?
“For f**k’s sake, Mac. I don’t want any bastard kid, not now, and probably not ever. How could you be so stupid?”
Maybe it was the hormones racing through me, or maybe it was the final straw that broke the camel’s back, but suddenly I don’t care what happens or what, if anything, he’s capable of doing to me. I’ve officially hit rock bottom; there’s nowhere left to go other than six feet under, or to fight and get up and out of this mess.
“You’re the one who let this happen,” I say, walking towards him. “You got drunk and didn’t use a f**king rubber!” I poke his chest with my finger, my voice getting louder with every word I spit out at him. “I didn’t realize my contraception had run out early, so if you’re going to blame anyone, blame yourself, Beau Gregory!”
I don’t have time to protect myself from the back handed slap that suddenly lands on my face, knocking me over onto the couch. I instinctually curl up into the fetal position to protect myself, and my stomach, from any further blows.
“Stupid bitch!” I hear him yell behind me as the front door slams. A few moments later I hear his Chevy truck roar to life, the tires squealing in the dirty parking lot as he takes off.
I’d like to say this is the first time he’s hit me, but it’s not. It first happened about a month after we first arrived in Dalton; that was the first sign that I’d made a huge mistake coming here with him.
We were at the bowling alley, and I had gone to get us some drinks. Beau saw me talking to a stranger who was waiting in line behind me, and that was all it took to set him off.
Later that night when we’d gotten home, and with a few too many beers under his belt, he laid into me; asking who the guy was, why was I talking to him, and asking whether I was f**king him behind his back. When I didn’t give him the ‘right answer’, his anger got the better of him and he slapped me across the face. He instantly sobered and spent the rest of the night, and the next week, apologizing profusely to me.
But the damage had already been done.
He promised it would never happen again; that he was just drunk and saw red when he saw me talking to another guy. Things started going downhill after that. Looking back, I should have gotten out then.
After lying on the bed for a few minutes, waiting to be sure he isn’t coming back, I get up and stumble to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I’m shocked at the reflection I see staring back at me. My once smooth, silky, dark brown hair is a tangled mess, my mascara, which was so carefully applied this morning, is now smudged and streaked down my tear stained face, and my cheek is red and puffy from where Beau’s hand struck me.
I see this now broken version of myself in the mirror, and the realization of the situation hits me like a freight train. I know I’m worth more than this. I can’t bring a baby into this world with an abusive father figure. I can’t have this baby. It’s not the time, and this definitely isn’t the place. I need to decide what I’m going to do. As much as it pains me, I wish this baby would disappear; go away and come back another day, at a better time, in a better situation with a better man.
Having climbed into the shower and tidied myself up, I put on some pajamas and crawl into bed. I’ve dead bolted the door because I don’t expect Beau to come home tonight, and if I’m being honest, the thought of sleeping in the same bed as him right now makes my skin crawl.
The last time he hit me, he disappeared for two days, coming back with his tail between his legs and begging me for forgiveness. The difference between that last time and now is that I’m not going to take his shit anymore. I need to come up with a plan, and I need to come up with one fast. I need to reclaim myself, my identity, my freaking backbone that I used to be known for.