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Stepping through the door feels like stepping back in time. Back in your old home town, going to your childhood best friend’s Halloween party. You feel the same old anxiety rise in your throat, swallow it back down.
It’s a very normal Halloween party. Everyone’s in costume: the gross-out guys in fake blood and ripped robes, the sexy cats and nurses, the people who threw on some old clothes and will spend the rest of the evening justifying who they are to anyone who dares to ask. You stand out. That was the point, but still, now that you feel the eyes on you, you’re double guessing yourself. A full face of face-paint, thousands of sequins sewn into your jacket and skirt, and weeks of craft boning the jacket and corset so that it flares outwards in a way that implies wings and a tail. An impressionistic dragon in shining greens and blues. You’re proud of yourself.
The party feels so familiar, but there’s not a single face you recognise. Chrissy must be in here somewhere, but you can’t see her. Best to look around.
[[Go to the kitchen.]]
[[Go to the garden.]]
[[Go to the living room.]]The kitchen is crowded, the epicentre of the in-crowd. The sexiest police women and the ghastliest ghouls are all here.
The space is tight and warm with bodies. People jostle into each other in a way which is both necessary and sensual.
You don’t see Chrissy.
[[Turn around.]]The garden is large, another reminder of your childhood, before you fled the suburbs and ran away to the city. The atmosphere is more relaxed here, the smell of dope present but not overpowering. People huddle by the lights like moths, chatting in soft voices. In the distance, by the hedges, you see the shapes of the more adventurous, more secretive, their eyes flashing in the darkness.
It’s nice, but you don’t see Chrissy.
[[Turn around.]]The living room seems like a familiar place. People lounge on the new, plump sofas, drinks crowd the little coffee table. It’s a space for couples, those who don’t need to compete in the rat race of the rest of the evening, the desperate hunt to not leave without a mate. People sit, their heads on shoulders and in laps, hands resting on bare flesh and scantily covered buttocks, breasts and chests. The conversation is intimate, old friends and lovers discussing lives you are not a part of.
You don’t see Chrissy.
[[Turn around.]]But Chrissy sees you.
“Girl! It’s so good to see you!” Chrissy has attempted to split the difference, going for a sexy ghost in the style of Wednesday Adams. It doesn’t not work. “No Dylan?”
You explain that there’s a Red Bills match on, so of course Dylan couldn’t come. Chrissy pouts and rolls her eyes.
“Men,” she says with a shrug, then waves her hand to dismiss the entire gender, “well, I shouldn’t say anything mean, he brought you back here, so I owe him for that. It’s so wonderful to have you back girl! Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
[[Go to get a drink.]]
[[“No thank you.”]]You try to move through the crowd to the little table-come-bar, but you don’t want to damage the intricate working of your jacket, so Chrissy darts in and out for you instead, appearing with two red solo cups.
The beer isn’t good, but it will do what it needs to do. You chat with Chrissy for a while, both giggling about memories of high school. You finish your bad but functional beer and Chrissy gets you another one. It’s nice, but then some other guests arrive and with an eye roll of performative exacerbation she’s off to act the host and you’re alone to take up position by Chrissy’s standing desk, scanning the room for someone to talk to.
“Hey, nice mermaid outfit.”
The guy is wearing dark hood and is holding a Spirit Halloween Ghostface mask in his hand. You explain that you’re a dragon, not a mermaid and he says that that’s even cooler. He leans against the desk, almost spilling your drink, and leans in close enough for you to smell that he’s probably had a couple more beers than you have.
[[Cover your drink.]]
[[Don’t cover your drink.]]“No? Are you sure? Things tend to get pretty hectic around here. I throw the best parties! But you’ll want to drink, otherwise they’ll make you the party mom.”
[[Go to get a drink.]]
[[“Really, thanks but no.”]]Chrissy shrugs again. She doesn’t look disappointed, but her eyes have immediately moved off yours. She talks for a couple minutes more, then finds something to distract herself with and moves off to giggle with someone else.
The night moves on. A few people approach you, mostly to compliment your outfit. It’s a nice little touchstone, but the conversation always fizzles and they move off, the way that drunk people who’ve lost touch with the rules of polite conversation often do. You fare even less well with the people you approach, because when they drift away it feels even more pointed.
Some guy climbs on a table, shotguns a beer, and then falls off. He lands fine, with the practised grace of a hockey player, but the room was already cheering before they knew he was all right. Someone, probably Chrissy, turns on the kind of stereo you didn’t realise people still had and soon everything is inaudible over the sound of the kind of music you imaged played in clubs when you were fourteen.
The sparkling dragon in the corner is well and truly forgotten.
[[Stay.]]
[[Leave early.]]You stay and Chrissy’s prediction comes true. A girl finds you with the unfaltering radar of a depressive drunk and finally you are in a conversation which doesn’t fizzle out. It’s a looping story of cheating and revenge, told in mostly the same words three or four times until, without warning, the girl throws up on you. She tries to clean up, groping at your chest and legs with a sopping wet cloth, but it has little effect.
It’s difficult to make new friends when you’ve clearly got vomit stuck in your sequins. So you decide to [[head home.]]You leave the party, sit behind the wheel of your car. The quiet rings in your head. Now that it’s expanded out of you, you realise that that silence was something you brought in with you.
You start the engine and begin to head back home. It’s not far, but you still feel the need to <i>do</i> something with the evening, so you stop at a gas station to pick up some milk and fruit for breakfast tomorrow. You don’t need it, but you tell yourself that you do, to turn a failed party into an over-long groceries trip.
An old man watches you as you pick through the bruised fruit. You see out of the corner of your eye his tongue dart out and lick his lips. You turn to him and he meets your stare, smiles crookedly showing yellow teeth. One hand is in the pocket of his pants.
“It’s late for such a lovely lady to be out.”
You buy your groceries and go back out to the car, not checking behind you but expanding your awareness as you cross the little dark lot.
It’s time to [[head home.]]You check the game score before you open the front door. The Red Bills lost. You take a deep, steadying breath and open the door.
Dylan is sitting on the couch, a few empty beer bottles on the table in front of him. His skin seems to shine slightly, the blue light of the TV reflecting off his smooth skin. He looks over at you, large eyes shimmering.
You tell him you’re sorry about the game. He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, his hands flexing and curling into fists.
You’re tired.
[[Clean yourself up, then go to bed.]]
[[Just wipe the face-paint off.]]You ask him his name, and as you do so you take the coaster out from under your cup and place it on top of it.
“What was that for?” he says, instead of answering. You shrug, not wanting to get into it. “Hey, what are you trying to say? You think I’m a creep? You don’t even know me. Bitch.”
He said the last word loud enough that the people around him heard. Half the room turns to look at the two of you as he pushes away from the desk, straight back into a group of other men, all of whom look at you, shaking their heads or rolling their eyes as he loudly tells them the story of how you assumed he was a creep just because of the way he looked.
You feel your cheeks flush and don’t know if you’re glad that the colour is hidden by the thick face-paint. Everyone seems to be looking at you. You swear you hear someone say ‘prude’, someone else mumble ‘racist’.
You can’t stay. It’s time you called a cab so you could [[head home.]]You ask the guy his name and he tells you, then you ask him what he does and he tells you. His speech is slightly slurred but his eyes are focussed.
There’s a bang from the other room and you instinctively look behind you. By the looks of it someone’s just fallen off a coffee table and everyone is cheering. You look back and the man is leering at you.
“You enjoying the party?”
You tell him that it’s fine. You try to tell him that you used to live here, moved away but now you’ve moved back. He doesn’t seem to be listening. Someone, probably Chrissy, turns on the kind of music you imaged played in clubs when you were fourteen. You try to keep talking to the guy but you can’t hear anything he’s saying. He leans in very close and you lean away. He straightens and smiles.
“I’ll see you later!” he yells over the music, and winks. Did he glance at your cup? He walks away, joins a group of friends, but he keeps watching you. You remember the bang, remember turning around, and try to remember if you’ve drunk anything from your cup since then. You think you probably have. That light feeling, is that just the alcohol? Are things warm, or are they fuzzy? You don’t know. But you’re conscious enough to know that you should probably call a cab and [[head home.]]You go through to the bathroom, run a quick shower, do your pre-sleep routine. When you come out Dylan is standing in the hall. In the darkness you barely see him.
“Why you always got to take so long.”
His words buzz through the air. You apologise and move through to the bedroom. Dylan follows you, stands in the doorway.
You turn to [[look at him.]]You go to the bedroom, pull out some face-wipes and take off enough of the paint so that your pillow won’t be absolutely ruined tomorrow.
“You look like a mess.”
Dylan’s standing in the doorway. You turn, squint through the darkness to [[look at him.]]He darts forward, his long limbs moving with a twitching between staccato and smooth. A scuttling, crawling action. He grips you by the upper arm and his hand is cold. Not ice cold, just too cold for a human’s hand.
“You have fun at your party?” he asks, his voice shrill, high-pitched. His shirt hangs loosely off his body, his long, thin frame. You begin to say something but he cuts you off and as he does, you realise that you cannot see his mouth. “See lots of old friends, did you? Meet anyone special?”
His black eyes stare, unblinking. Something flashes behind him, an up-down motion of something intricate and transparent. His face is growing down. Cartilage elongating. Again, you try to speak, try to tell him nothing happened, but he laughs and the laugh is a gurgling buzz.
“That bitch Chrissy never liked me. I always thought she was the reason you never liked me in high school. I would have loved to see the look on her face when she heard I’d finally got you.”
The words are out before you can stop them. ‘Chrissy’s not that bad.’ It’s not even true: Chrissy’s great.
The grip on your arm tightens. Chitin bites into your skin.
“That bitch said something tonight, didn’t she? She never liked us together. It’s none of her fucking business.” A hand reaches up, holds your chin. “You’re mine, not hers. All right?”
You tell him yes. All right. But there must have been something wrong with your tone, because he throws you down on the bed.
Silhouetted against the curtains, you can see him clearly now. The lower part of his abdomen twitches, the fleshy, translucent sack hanging behind his legs roils back and forth as the liquid in it churns, so full that the entire organ looks like it could burst at any moment. His wings twitch up and down, not flexing like a bird’s might, simply moving like the fixed wings of a plane.
“You can be such a bitch, you know that? Why’d you have to go out? You know I’d have preferred it if you stayed here. But you wanted to show off, didn’t you.” He reaches forward, claws the ends of three legs into your jacket, pulls. Sequins fly across the room. “Couldn’t just stay in with me, had to go out.” His voice is a buzz now, barely words, but still you can tell that he is talking to himself now. Like he’s forgotten you’re there as his hands sweep over you, pulling at fabric, ripping your shirt, pressing against skin. “You couldn’t stay here with me. You’re mine. You know that, don’t you? You’re mine.”
‘Yes.’ You try to say ‘yes.’ But the sound catches in your throat, and by the time you are ready to try again one of his legs has come up and clamped around your mouth. He’s shaking his head. Even in the darkness, you see light somehow reflecting off his segmented eyes, eyes that seem to take all of you in. Eyes that don’t see you at all.
Then, without warning, he stabs his proboscis deep into the flesh of your stomach.
[[Fight.|Fake choice]]
[[Flight.|Fake choice]]
[[Freeze.|Fake choice]]
[[Fawn.|Fake choice]]Actually, you don’t get to choose. Automatic trauma responses are automatic. You don’t get to choose them. They just happen, for better or for worse.
So:
[[Option A|Fawn]]
[[Option B|Flight]]
[[Option C|Freeze]]
[[Option D|Fight]]You go limp, one hand reaching up to stroke the hard, black chitin of his chest.
“Please,” you try to say, and when he moves his leg away, you say, “thank you.”
His head moves up and down gently while his abdomen pulses, beats like a heart as it slowly squeezes itself tighter and tighter. A single bead of dark blood rolls down from where his proboscis pierces your skin.
“Thank you,” you say again, “thanks, please, it’s good, please, a little gentler.”
A hand reaches up, strokes the side of your face, but the pain does not go away. You feel the flesh of your stomach begin to stretch out and you let out a little gasp of pain. Then you apologise for the gasp. “Please.” You say, “please, it’s good but please, gentle, please.”
The pain in your stomach grows and grows. The pumping gets faster and faster, Dylan’s proboscis moving deeper and deeper as his thorax spasm more and more violently. Your voice continues running on automatic, not begging now for him to be gentle, but asking that he not hurt you more than he needs to.
And then, without warning, there is a popping noise and he pulls out. Your whole body feels numb. He staggers, one way then the other for a moment, then rights himself and, without a word, scuttles into bed next to you. You lie, looking at his insectile body for a moment, the segmented eyes seemingly still open. Then you throw on an old shirt and run [[out of the house.]]Your body tenses, building up energy, then it pushes away, pushes across, scrambles to get up, to get out. Muscles built for running push with all of their strength. You put in the power to get you to the door, out of the door, through the house and outside, to sprint away from this place and this thing which is happening to you.
Dylan pushes his head down and you scream. It feels like he is pinning you to the bed. His arms push down on yours as he lifts up his lower legs to straddle your own. You wriggle and writhe and Dylan’s proboscis tears at your flesh, ripping open a hole which splatters blood across your stomach. Your chest constricts as if you are suffocating, but you are not. You can’t move. You push everything you have into a twist away from his body, but he pushes back and pain flares through your joints.
Your hands and feet go numb, blood no longer circulating to the tips of your fingers and toes. You try loosening, try sliding a limb out from under his grip. An arm gets free and you scrabble for a moment, your fingers grasping at the bed sheets, before his own hand clamps around your wrist with bruising force.
The pumping gets faster and faster, Dylan’s proboscis moving deeper and deeper as his thorax spasm more and more violently. The pain in your stomach feels blinding, the ripped skin pouring blood out faster and faster as the flesh around it stretches, the pressure building and building as Dylan pumps more and more into you.
And then, with a popping sound, Dylan pulls his proboscis free. He looks down at you for a moment, his limbs still pinning yours like an insect on display. You read nothing in his dark, segmented eyes. He gives a final squeeze, shooting pain through your body, before he stands up and disappears to the bathroom.
The panic is still in you, the need to flee and, even though you stumble on feet you cannot feel, you throw on an old shirt and run [[out of the house.]]You feel every muscle in your body tense. Keep still and solid, strong like stone. But you’re not stone, you’re meat, and it doesn’t matter how tightly you squeeze your muscles, Dylan’s proboscis still moves up and down, up and down, up and down, a small bubble of blood slowly growing where the black chitin meets your soft skin.
At first you feel everything. It’s like your nerves are burning white-hot fast, every sense screaming everything it can to your brain. You feel the coldness of his skin where it touches your arms, pinning them, the rub of his legs through your skirt as he twitches up and down, the hard, thick needle stabbing into your stomach, the way your flesh moves up and down with it, like a suction cup, like it’s clinging to it. You feel the softness of the sheets beneath you, the heat of his breath coming hotter and hotter against your upper pubis, the liquid stuff pumping out of him and into you, pushing against the inside of your belly, swelling, swelling, swelling.
Then, slowly, one by one, it feels as if your nerves burn out. You lose connection as the tethers that moor you to what is happening come loose. Dylan pushing you down into the bed, the screaming stress of your muscles, the pain. The scream stuck frozen somewhere in your chest.
You see him, a thing you know is the boyfriend of something known as ‘you’, and you see yourself, lying there. And you watch for a while, watching a mechanical process unfold. And then you look away, because part of you can’t look, but also because that holds no more meaning, no more importance than anything else in the room: the way the paint is peeling off the wall behind the headboard, the wonky angle on the shade of a nightlight, the cobwebs in the ceiling.
Dylan is lying next to you. You suppose you knew he stopped a while ago, but you don’t remember when. Your body just knows it finished and slowly let you know that you had to come back. You move and your limbs feel heavy and tired. Everything feels cold. You sit up and sway, your vision not sure of itself coming from this angle.
Dylan does not move as you pull on an old shirt and, unsure of quite why you are doing it, [[leave the house.|out of the house.]]You take a series of deep, shuddering breaths, and then you bring your knee up with all of its force, straight into the bulging, swinging sac at the end of his abdomen.
With a popping sound Dylan pulls out of you, his voice buzzing in pain and rage. He brings a fist up, almost instinctively, but just before it hits your face he pulls it back. You stare into his dark, segmented eyes as he cocks his head slightly.
“You bitch,” he buzzes, and then he hits you, hard, in the ribs. “You’re mine!” he says, as he hits you again, just softly enough to not break your ribs.
Then, before your vision can clear, he’s slapping his legs down on your legs, pressing so strongly that your torso comes up as you try to curl into a ball, but a foot on your shoulder pushes you back down, hard, into the bed. Lying flat and straight – supine – he pushes himself deep into you again.
You struggle. You struggle because that’s what your body does when this happens. Your leg tries to get out from under his, your foot tries to reach to kick him again, while your core and arms push, just trying to get him off you.
“No!” Dylan roars, pulling his head up and plunging it down again, his thick needle proboscis sinking even deeper.
The pain flares so bright that for a moment it is all you are. No sight, no thought, nothing but the pain. Then the sensation comes back, Dylan moving up and down inside you, your stomach bulging as his abdomen sack pushes itself empty into you.
And then, pulling out with a spray of blood, he is done. Free from his weight, you throw yourself at him, but he catches you by the hair and throws you, screaming, to the floor.
“Bitch.”
Hours later Dylan’s asleep and you grab an old shirt and, before he can wake, run [[out of the house.]]It’s dark outside, the street lanterns doing little to light the paths. You fumble for a second with your car key, but your hand is shaking too much to press the button. Still, you get inside, place both hands on the steering wheel, and sit for a moment. You’ll get a lift. But to where?
[[To your mom’s house.]]
[[To Chrissy’s house.]]
[[To the police.]]You thump the heavy brass knocker against the wood of your mother’s house. Always the light sleeper, she’s there almost immediately.
"What do you want, at this time of night?" she asks as she swings the door open.
You take a steadying breath and step inside. The house is meticulous, as it always is, your mother standing in the middle of the rush mat.
"Something happened with Dylan."
"Oh?" she says, raising an eyebrow. "What did you do?"
She guides you through to the living room, where she spends a few minutes lighting a fire while you collect yourself.
Then you tell her. She sits patiently, her hands in her lap, her face an unreadable blank. You do not tell her everything, not the details. She doesn’t need to know. You don’t want to. When you finish she just looks at you for a long time.
"Dylan’s a good man," she says at last. You open you mouth to say something, although you don’t know what, but she shakes her head. "Men have their moments, my darling. You can’t judge him for one night."
"But he-"
"Think about his side. You left him at home all night, the Bills lost the game, he’d had a few beers to drink. He wasn’t in a good state, I can see that. So yes, maybe he was a little rougher than he should have been, and he shouldn’t have done that, but really, you don’t need to make this a bigger deal than it is."
"Mom, he attacked me."
Mom sighs.
"Men are different from us darling. They have different needs. And they have to deal with so much. Us women are a little more delicate, he probably didn’t even know he was hurting you."
<<if hasVisited("Fawn")>>"I did ask him to be gentle."
"Well did he know you were serious? You have to be very clear with men sometimes."
"I … I don’t know."
"Well there you go.<<elseif hasVisited("Flight")>>"I tried to get away."
"Well that probably just provoked him. You shouldn’t provoke men like that. That’s what causes the problems.<<elseif hasVisited("Freeze")>>You say nothing, just stare down at your hands.<<else>>"I tried to push him off."
"Well that probably just provoked him. You shouldn’t provoke men like that. That’s what causes the problems.<</if>>
"Dylan is a good man, with a good job and a nice place. He’s given you a lot. Just think of where you would be without him. So just be grateful, and if he’s not perfect, well, what man is?"
She smiled her ‘everything is sorted now’ smile and you remember what it was like growing up, learning what happened when you didn’t let her last word be the last word. So you stand up, then sit straight back down again.
There is something wrong. Something wrong in your stomach. There’s a movement, a twisting. There’s something in there. You need to go. You need to get to the apothecary. Now.
You mumble something to your mom and she shows you to the door.
"You know I love you my darling. And I’m sorry this happened to you. But it’s the way it is. It won’t be a big deal if you don’t make it a big deal."
You nod, trying not to look at her, your eyes settling on the family portrait on the wall above the stairs.
Your mother as a child, with her sister and her brother, her brother on her father’s knee, she and her sister on uncle Alan and uncle Jeffery’s knees. Alan’s legs are thin and segmented. His eyes black and segmented. His face obscured by a long, black proboscis hanging down and pushing against the back of your mother’s head.
[[The hospital.]]The house, so light and loud just a few hours ago, is dark when you make it to Chrissy’s. You knock loudly on the door, then you knock again. Finally, on the third try, Chrissy’s face appears in the crack.
“Oh, it’s you. Is everything okay?” You hesitate and she opens the door. “Darling you look awful! Come in, tell me what happened.”
Chrissy shows you through to the living room, which is still covered in discarded flaggons, plates and pitchers. The tables, chairs, and wall hangings are all in disarray. The room smells of alcohol, sweat, and vomit, and you fight the urge to run.
Chrissy gestures for you to sit, but when you do you hear a sound behind you which makes you stand right back up again.
There’s a man standing in the hall, rubbing his eyes and pulling at the edge of a pink dressing gown.
Chrissy giggles and introduces you to Dan, who you vaguely remember seeing dressed as a werewolf earlier in the evening. He smiles sheepishly at you, then follows Chrissy’s instruction to go back to the bedroom.
“Darling, it’s just us, tell me everything.”
You don’t tell her everything. But you tell her enough. She listens, open-mouthed, interrupting almost constantly with “Oh my god!”s and “Oh that’s awful!”s. When you’re done, not because the story is finished but because that’s all your body will let you say, she leans forward, as if she is going to put a hand on your leg, but stops and instead just says:
“Oh you poor thing. You poor, poor thing.” She frowns at you, her eyes thick with pity. “What did you do?”
You begin to tell her, repeating what you had just said, but she shakes her head.
“I mean, before. Why was he so mad?”
You pause, not knowing what to say. Chrissy waits until it is clear that you are not going to answer, before pouting and shaking her head.
“It’s so awful. I can’t say how sorry I am. Why don’t you stay here tonight? Then we can talk more in the morning.”
You are about to nod, but something stops you. Not the emotional constriction you’ve been feeling, but something more immediately physical. A movement in your stomach. You gag and Chrissy jumps back.
“What’s wrong?” she squeaks, her hands up defensively by her side.
“There’s something inside me,” you answer, trying not to bring up anything else with the words. “I just felt it move.”
“Honey you’ve got to get to the apothecary right away. I’d drive but, well I had too much to drink. Here, let me grab the light, I’ll summon a carriage.”
Without a backwards glance Chrissy flees the room, returning sometime later to let you know that your ride is here.
[[The hospital.]]You arrange for transportation and arrive at the watch station. You knock on the heavy wooden door and wait for a bored-looking man in a watch uniform to open the door for you. The room inside is cold, bright lights and bare stone. A few people, most drunk, wait on rough benches. A woman in uniform approaches you, asks why you’re there. You begin to tell her what happened and she waves a hand, cutting you off.
"You say your boyfriend raped you?" You hesitate and the woman shrugs. "An officer of the watch will be with you shortly. Please sit down."
You sit on one of the benches, try not to look at the other people looking at you.
People come and go, some wearing uniforms, some not. You look down at your shoes, back up. Almost scream. Something walks across the room, wings folded, four feet scuttling, bulging abdomen sack bouncing against his legs, proboscis long and black and reflecting the cold light. The fear catches in your throat, but the thing walks straight past, stopping to exchange a few buzzed words with the bored woman who told you to sit down. Both laugh and it carries on, disappearing somewhere else in the building.
An officer of the watch appears next, walking over to you with a scroll half unrolled in his hands. He calls your name and you stand clumsily. He doesn’t hide a sigh as he gestures you to follow him to a small, smokey room.
"I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
You begin, then stop. Your vision has blurred. Maybe because of that, maybe along with it, your breath is coming fast. You feel heat rise inside you and your stomach knots, drops. And you have just one question ringing over and over in your head.
Is this what death feels like?
The man clears his throat.
"I need you to pull yourself together. If you don’t tell me what happened, there’s nothing I can do for you."
You can’t talk. Your vision begins to break apart into bright dots as the chair beneath you seems to tilt away from the floor. Somewhere, echoing and distant, the man repeats your name.
A sigh blows over you and by some level of perception of which you are not quite aware you know the man has stood up, is moving to the door.
<<if hasVisited("Fawn")>>"I asked him to go gently."<<elseif hasVisited("Flight")>>"I tried to get away."<<elseif hasVisited("Freeze")>>"I don’t remember what happened."<<else>>"I tried to fight back."<</if>>
Heat is rising through you and you can feel sweat push through your pores. The man is standing by the door, a point of stillness as your world fizzes and pops.
"Did you say no?"
You hesitate, because you can’t remember.
The man shakes his head, sighs again.
"Listen, if you didn’t say no, or can’t remember saying no, then there’s nothing I can do. Yeah, I know the law, but we’ve got hundreds of cases much more clear-cut than this going nowhere in the courts, so yours definitely isn’t going anywhere. I can get you the addresses of a number of services that might be able to help, but there’s nothing we can do. We have to prioritise."
<<if hasVisited("Fawn")>>"But please-"<<elseif hasVisited("Flight")>>Your vision narrows again and suddenly you feel as if you are trapped, as if the walls of this tiny room are rushing towards you.<<elseif hasVisited("Freeze")>>You feel every muscle go tight.<<else>>You rise from your seat, fists clenched.<</if>>
The man holds out a hand. He tells you that you need to go. That if you want to do something, you should go to the apothecary. That if you cause trouble, things won’t go well for you. You see the glinting blackness of his protruding eyes, so you go.
[[The hospital.]]You feel them moving on the way to the hospital. Wriggling inside your guts, growing in your lower torso. The pain is dull and far away, but the changes to your body are dramatic. You feel weak. You feel hungry and thirsty and like you need to piss and throw up. You feel like there is something wrong. You feel like ‘you’ is no longer ‘yours’.
You are shown through the herb garden and into the apothecary’s office. He is wearing his black doctor’s robes, his mask lying waiting on a table nearby, hands already covered in thick leather gloves. He smiles as you enter, the professional smile of someone who is supposed to care.
“How can I help you today?”
You don’t tell him the whole story. You don’t think you could. You just say the facts. What attacked you. What’s now inside you. He nods, asks you to raise your shirt. He pushes gently against your stomach, but even that pressure makes you wince. He then asks you to go behind a cloth screen and pee into a small chamber pot, which, after you finish, he takes and pours into a clear glass vial. He considers it for quite a while, swirling it gently while holding it up to a flame. Then, finally, he puts it down and turns to you, smiling again.
“Congratulations, I can indeed confirm that you are impregnated.”
You’d known, but even so, you feel the world fall away from around you for a moment.
“Okay,” you say slowly, “can you get it out?”
The man grimaces and shakes his head.
“I can’t do that. The county Lord’s changed the law. It’s not allowed any more.”
“What? Even, even when-”
“No exceptions,” he shrugs. “It’s up to the Lords to decide for their own counties. It’s not my choice, I could be arrested and put in the stocks if I did it. Maybe you could speak to the Alderman, then he might be able to pass your concerns up to the Lord. But I can’t help you.”
You don’t say anything. For a moment you just want to sit and cry, or stand and scream, or jump up and start throwing things at the walls. But you do not. Because what would that do.
There’s only one thing you can do.
[[Go to the Alderman.]]It is still dark when you arrive at the Alderman’s hall, a large wooden structure on the edge of the town square. Torches blaze up and down its walls, but when you approach, the guards on the door tell you that the Alderman won’t be taking any petitioners until morning. One of them looks you up and down with his bulging black eyes, and you retreat to a stone bench next to the fountain in the centre of the square.
Slowly the sun rises and only as warmth creeps back into the world around you do you realise you had been cold. Your stomach roils: the things inside already feel bigger.
One of the guards, the one with the brown eyes, gestures for you to come up the steps, shows you into the large meeting hall, the banners depicting the sigils of county and country lining the walls. The Alderman sits in a large chair at the end of a large table.
“What’s this about?” the old man says, his white whiskers blowing up and down as he speaks.
You begin to explain. You were attacked. Now you have this thing, or these things, inside you. You need to get them out.
He grows visibly more and more uncomfortable as you speak.
“Who attacked you?” he asks when you are done.
You explain. Dylan. Your boyfriend. He seems relieved.
“Oh. Well. This all sounds very confusing. Without him here to say his piece, I really couldn’t take a side.”
[[Explain it’s not about taking sides.]]
[[Ask if he doesn’t believe you.]]“Well,” he says, as if explaining something to a child, “if I were to do anything, then that would certainly look like I was taking a side.
“Besides, there’s one thing you clearly haven’t thought about. What about the children?”
[[“What children?”]]
[[“No, what about me?”]]“It’s not whether I believe you or not,” he says, not meeting your eyes, “but I couldn’t do anything without hearing both sides. That’s only fair, I think you’ll agree. You can’t argue it’s not fair.
“Besides, there’s one thing you clearly haven’t thought about. What about the children?”
[[“What children?”]]
[[“No, what about me?”]]The Alderman blinks.
“The children inside you. They should have a voice in this, and since they can’t speak for themselves, then it will have to be me. I won’t take this to the Lord. Who’s to say what actually happened, but either way, someone has to stand up for the children.
“If you want to take it to the Lord yourself, I cannot stop you. But I think it would be an awfully wicked thing to do. You’re in the wrong here my girl. And once you hold them in your arms, you’ll see that I’m right.”
You open your mouth to say something, but something kicks within you and you snap your jaw shut to prevent the rush of vomit from spewing out.
You can’t give up.
[[Go to the Lord.]]The man raises a bushy white eyebrow.
“What about you? Now my girl, that’s awfully selfish, don’t you think. You have a responsibility to other people now. The children growing inside you deserve someone who will think of them before herself.” He shakes his head and makes a ‘tsk’ sound. “No, I won’t take this to the Lord. Who’s to say what actually happened, but either way, someone has to stand up for the children.
“If you want to take it to the Lord yourself, I cannot stop you. But I think it would be an awfully wicked thing to do. You’re in the wrong here my girl. And once you hold them in your arms, you’ll see that I’m right.”
You open your mouth to say something, but something kicks within you and you snap your jaw shut to prevent the rush of vomit from spewing out.
You can’t give up.
[[Go to the Lord.]]The Lord’s castle is in the neighbouring town and you have to travel for most of the day to get there, sitting in the back of a farmer’s wagon between bales of hay.
It is dusk when you finally stand beneath the edifice of black stone. Almost a cube, windows hidden behind thick brows of rectangular stone which come off the structure in a chaos which feels like the antithesis of nature. A randomness of straight edges and brutal corners which only a human mind could conjure.
You fall to your knees as the thing inside you scratches. The pain isn’t quite right, not quite like pain but more like a pressing, more like a wrongness. A push to remind you that your body isn’t yours any more.
It is physically difficult to stand again, dragged down by the weight of the thing inside you.
You walk up the blood-red carpet, are shown across the obsidian floor to where the Lord of the County waits, sitting on a throne built into a pillar of ivory-white marble.
“You are late in the day, petitioner, but I’ll hear you,” he says, only briefly glancing down at you.
You tell him that you have something inside you, something you have to get out.
“And?”
And that it is the law, his law, which means that you can’t get it out.
“Yes.”
You stand, unmoving. Then you explain again what happened. That it wasn’t an accident, or a mistake, or a decision you now regret. That it was an attack. He shakes his hand.
“That is irrelevant. The ‘thing’ as you so callously put it, is just as much his as it is yours. And yet, as it always is, I do not see him standing here with you.” You begin to say that that isn’t the point, but he speaks over you. “And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.” He leaves a brief pause, a caveat left unsaid. “The law is the law. We protect the children.”
[[Beg.]]
[[Demand.]]You fall to your knees, hold your hands out before you. The Lord rolls his eyes.
“Yes, it’s all very sad. I’m sure it’s horrible, having the burden of creating life. But I won’t let you murder his poor unborn children just because you couldn’t keep your legs closed.”
The words hit like a blow, and you bend at the waist, curling up as tears sting your eyes.
“Oh pathetic. Grow up and face the consequences of your actions. You’re about to be a mother, you have to do better than this. Symon! My son will show you out. We’re done here.”
You wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes and look up to see the Lord’s son looking down at you. Long limbs, segmented eyes, proboscis. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, slides a hand around your waist as he leads you out. You look behind and see the Lord still watching you with the eyes of a hawk.
Symon’s breath is thick and warm, but he does not say anything as he leads you to the servants’ exit and [[leaves you there.|Leave Lord]]You stand straight, or as straight as you can with the weight in your belly pulling against every muscle in your body.
You tell the Lord that, as a citizen of his county, you have a right to be heard. You have a right to matter. You have a right to your body, and he cannot take that away from you.
He laughs.
"Oh, I did not realise you were a knight? A landowner? A bishop? Oh, you are not? You’re just some whore, and if I throw you out then who, really, will care?
"We’re done here. Symon! My son will show you out."
You shout up at the throne, shout that he should listen, that if he had any conscience at all, if he had any respect for the people he governed, he would care. And then something snakes around your waist and you turn to look into the multi-faceted eyes of the Lord’s son.
"My dad doesn’t like feisty women, but I do."
<<if hasVisited("Fawn")>>"Oh. That’s nice," you say, and he laughs.
"Don’t get your hopes up. I can do much better than you."<<elseif hasVisited("Flight")>>You try to take a step away, but he just steps with you, squeezing you against his body.<<elseif hasVisited("Freeze")>>You feel your whole body go stiff.<<else>>You take a half step towards him, your chin up, but you see the edge of a smile around his proboscis and you step back.<</if>>
He leads you to the servants’ entrance and lets you go, although when you turn around you see him still standing, watching you as you [[walk away.|Leave Lord]]You sit in your room at the local inn, the sounds of life continuing in the busy market lane outside.
You feel sick. You have just eaten everything you could buy with the few coins you took with you, but you still want to eat more.
The things inside you, because as they’ve grown you can tell now, as one kicks up and another presses down, that there is more than one, shift, making a playground of your body. They press on your lungs and you find it hard to breathe. You are cold and hot and everything blurs around you.
Alone, you are left with one choice.
[[Get them out yourself.]]
[[Leave them, let them take their course.]]You hold your tools over a candle flame, try to sanitise them as best you can. You wash yourself in a bath, drink strengthening herbal teas.
You know, as you look at the knife and wire, that you will die.
Maybe it is the thought of a slow death from infection that pushes you to drive the wire in deep, the idea that you would watch your whole body be consumed by a thousand thousand little mouths, that you would feel your senses leave you one by one, that your last experiences would be of mad, fevered madness. So it is almost a relief when you find yourself screaming with pain, when you watch the blood flow out of your body, flow and flow and flow, spilling across far more of the floor than you had felt possible.
But you are lying to yourself. It isn’t a relief. As you lie on the wooden floor, too weak to stand, too lost to call for help, you cannot help but think of all the things that could have been. You cannot help but think about that night. You cannot rage that it did not go differently.
The ‘whys’ go around and around.
You wonder why it had to be you. You wonder why he did it. You wonder why you live in a world where these things can happen.
And, as the strength leaves you and the thoughts come flooding in, you die wondering if it was, indeed, your fault.
[[The end.]]Your mother takes you in. She cannot stop talking about her excitement. She prepares a room for the things inside you, for when they are no longer inside you. But Chrissy comes to visit and she asks you the question.
When they come, as they are coming now, when you have finished screaming in your bed as they rip themselves out of the hole he made, a doctor gently opening up the hole, a nurse smiling and holding your hand, when they are out and you are holding them in your arms, what will you do with them?
[[Give them away.]]
[[Keep them.]]Written in 4 hours by Milo van Mesdag
Proofread by Ro van Mesdag
About: [[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abortion_in_Texas]]
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<</link>>There are people who help women like you. People who will take the manifestations of their trauma and find new lives for them.
You say goodbye to them, the things that were, in some way, yours, even as you were theirs. And while you see them in dreams for the rest of your life, nightmares of guilt and trauma, fevered dreams of two young things going through the world knowing that, whatever they become, the first thing they ever were was a thing which was rejected, you never truly see them again.
[[The end.]]You love them. Of course you love them. You give them the best life you can.
And sometimes you forget. But sometimes you remember. You look at one of them, when they are angry or hurt, and you see Dylan. You remember that night, and then you are cold and they are no longer, in that moment, the things that you love.
They know that. Even before they can speak, when they attempt to suckle at you and you push them away, they know that. Before they know what wrong and right is, they know that they have done something wrong. That they could have been better and happier. And so they learn to push to get to your breast, because they learn that sometimes they have to push. And they learn to be hard, to make things the way they need them to be, because sometimes their mother will not be there to help them, sometimes she will be replaced with a monster, some creature of stone which pushes them away, refuses to let them in.
And someday, perhaps as soon as they can, they leave. And you will be left alone, the life you once knew having long faded to dust.
[[The end.]]<div style="text-align: center;"><h1>No.</h1></div>
A short horror by Milo van Mesdag
CW: Graphic sexual assault, denial of body autonomy, body horror.
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