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lonelyloverliv · 2 years

Text

Potential

He had left her in the early hours before sunrise, alcohol staining their insides, still trickling idly through their veins and words. They had whispered sweet goodbyes into each other, holding their kiss a little too long. Sleepy eyes breaking the embrace, a yawn shifting through both. The door closed abruptly, and she sauntered off to bed. Hugging herself delicately, yearning his embrace for just a moment before sleep swallowed her whole.

The morning started like most after being with someone. She woke to a pile of clothes on the floor and two half-drunk glasses. Limes turning sour green. She sifted between messy bedsheets, reaching for her phone, needing to know if he had reached his destination safely. “Night… sleep well…”, the text read. Along with a few inconsequential emojis scattered throughout, but they seemed earnest and thoughtful. She wouldn’t reply yet. She would reply after she had sorted out the slight inconvenience from the previous evening. Shifting her body through a sleepy haze, she rose, bones protesting the movement, brain arguing that they should stay in bed for a few moments longer. She had less than 24hrs and the sooner she dealt with the subject of “potential growth in her womb”, the better… or at least more effective.

Slipping into shower, she mulled over the previous evening. It was like she could feel him seeping down her thighs, the remnants clinging to her, finding the best place to rest. She remembered the way his body shuddered under hers, the way it made her feel perversely powerful. A woman’s sexuality is one of the most dangerous things in this world. Even more so when they knew their power. She was currently treading between the two. Knowing exactly how to capitalise from this energy and not wanting to. Dipping her toes shyly into both ends, wondering which pool she would tread too far into. The pool that she so desperately wanted to drift into was currently closed for renovations. The tiles changing to make sure the façade was a complete representation of the actual her. It was insufferable, the way she was being submerged into the consciousness of knowing how to weaponise herself again. How she could craft these caricatures. Constantly analysing every slight movement, the tone of her voice, the words spilling out after one too many drinks. That was the hardest to control. To slip through the cracks, but vehemently needing to stand out. To be sophisticated, but cool, with subtle hints of quirkiness. The juxtapositions even within her real personality were exhausting. The tiles smattered around, varying from innocent pinks and harsh yellows. Deep purples and complex blues, pastel greens, and muted orange. Some intoxicatingly black. Others pearlescent white. The configuration constantly changing. Sometimes it was tidal waves of colour, other times it was an abstract rendition of Water Lilies. In this moment of her life, it seemed as though the purples and blues had taken precedent. Muddling together to create a series of uneven circles, reminiscent of something bubbling underneath. Thoughts trying too hard to break the surface. Right now, all she wanted was a disco ball of colour. Tiles spread evenly, darkness emerging into light.

Soap swilled in the bottom of the drain. A condom was meant to be a safe bet. But was anything truly ever safe when it came to sex. The act itself was animalistic. Raw. Meant for moments exactly like this. “A growth”, or a child, if she felt like putting it fondly. The visceral nature of sex though - surrendering to another, moving in unison, wondering how this person came into existence and not knowing how long they would be a fixture in your life. Now that was sex. Knowing one has absolute authority over your body for an undisclosed amount of time, that was something sacred. That was what terrified her most about sex. Not “the growth” or the potential of one. This is why there were options. Plan B’s and subsequently C’s (if it ever got that far). Heck some people even opted for fucking Plan D… So why did she feel this pang of humiliation.

She dried herself, examining her body. Her stomach. It was the thing she had always struggled with most about her body. The softness seemed in complete contradiction to her whole essence. She despised the way it made her feel gentle. She grabbed at the flesh, holding it firmly in her hands. Women were meant to be slight, lean, but also well-endowed with curves. To have enough to hold onto but not so much that it bulged through their clothing in obvious ways. The words “not pregnant… yet?” etched themselves across her belly in a blueish purple. Like the way her veins spread like roots across her pale skin, only visible to her. She released her grip and watched the fat wobble lightly. She sighed. The ticking in her head growing louder now. Taking control now, it pushed her towards the first items of clothing she could get her hands on. A pastel purple tank top and denim skirt. Virtuous in its approach. Remnants of make-up from the night before powdered across her eyes - not so virtuous. The countdown banging at her temples. She closed the door behind her as if on que. The beat slowly drilling itself into her footsteps.

The ticking subsided for a moment as she stomped into the pharmacy. She was enveloped in fluorescent white lighting, the kind that makes even a healthy person look emaciated. The confidence she previously had was lost as she saw a middle-aged man behind the counter gathering prescriptions idly. He was weathered. Leather hands grasping the pill packets firmly and his slightly shaky voice giving off the fact that he was nearing his 60’s. The woman at the counter was barking at him, devulging every facet of her extensive morning routine, which included several types of pills and various nasal sprays.

“Do you have the one that makes the back of your throat numb? My last doctor prescribed it too me! You know the one” she stated in a shrill voice.

The pharmacist nodded, laughed gently, and explained to the woman in depth what this nasal spray was also capable off. The ticking in her head rising again.

“I’ll be with you in a moment young lady”, the pharmacist threw to Lily. It was like her impatience was radiating off her.

Young Lady.

Her body heaved involuntarily. The words competing against the ticking, until they morphed into one. Young… Lady… Young… Lady… Young… Lady… She inhaled deeply, knowing exactly how this interaction was going to play out.

The woman in front of her grabbed her things abruptly, stubby fingers trying desperately to gather it all.

“Thank you”, again in the intrusive tone.

The pharmacist smiled and said, “Have a great day”, waving to her as she thudded down the aisle past Lily. “Now miss, what can I do for you?” he spoke softly.

He was too friendly, eyes beaming at her, wondering what exactly a young woman of her mostly healthy looking (besides slightly bloodshot eyes from booze and little sleep) person needed.

Miss

“Uhhhhh, I need the morning after pill”, she said awkwardly, but loud enough that she would not let him know how uncomfortable she was finding this interaction. Immediately his body stiffened. It was instinctive. Her eyes trailed to the counter.

“Right…” he said. Like a disapproving father figure who’s just met the third disaster of a boyfriend. “Has it been less than 24hrs?”, he continued.

Tick.

“Yes”, she replied firmly.

Tick.

“How old are you?”, he countered.

Tick.

“24”, she pushed back.

Tick.

“Right well… I’ll need to see some ID” he stated, moving to the stack of shelves which she only assumed was full of other feminine specific items.

Tick.

By the time he was back her ID was on the counter, sitting idly, waiting for him to examine it. He picked it up, creased fingertips holding it up to the light, as if making sure it wasn’t a fake. She scoffed slightly.

“Mmm”, placing the packet on the counter now along with her ID, “You know this isn’t considered an effect method of birth control, right? Essentially you should not be using this as the only form of birth control”, he finished.

His eyes condemning her. Confused, dazed, hungover, shocked, her body froze. Tongue at a standstill in the roof of her mouth. She blinked at him for a moment, eyes wide with horror. Bile seething its way from her chest into her mouth, as if to warm up her tongue.

“Well, sometimes Plan A doesn’t exactly go to plan now does it”, she retorted, words sticky and indignant.

Smiling smugly, eyes burning into him as she snatched the little box and her license. She turned her heel, trying to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.

Tick, tick, tick.

A minor beep of a credit card and she was onto the street.

Step.

Step…

Her body felt heavy with shame. Feet slamming themselves against the pavement. The anger and humiliation driving her forward. Legs melting further into the cement with every step. Sweat dripping from her forehead, pooling under her eyes, dissolving the remaining make-up further into her pores. Chest hot with rage and embarrassment. The packet burning a hole inside of her pocket, making it so obvious just how irresponsible she was.

Slamming the door of her apartment, she examined the little package in her hands. It was like most pill packets, but the mauve boarder caught her attention. Why was it that every kind of feminine product had to have these reminders that you are the owner of a uterus? Feminine, delicate, and soft. Moments before, having a uterus had been the most embarrassing thing in her world. To be a fertile, pure creature, unaware of the consequences of her actions. Purple flashed vividly across her vision. How fitting, that her outfit matched this tiny box. Fertile and young and dumb. But she was none of those things, she was tainted, rebellious, smart, secure. She knew how important and impactful this speck of white compressed powder was. She knew there were consequences to her actions.

She opened it up. Examining the sizeable leaflet within. She had always wondered how they had compressed such a vast amount of information into something that could be folded into a tiny piece of paper, shoved inside an even smaller box, with an even smaller pill. She laughed. She supposed it was like how a fully grown human exits out of such a tiny hole. How it is stored within such a tiny space. How much room it will eventually take up in the world. Scanning the document for the most pertinent information, “don’t take whilst pregnant… can cause nausea, spotting, etc. etc. etc…”, she found all the basic symptoms of both pregnancy and menstruation. How were women ever to really know which they were? Fertile? Infertile? Ready? Not ready? Having a baby or aborting a semblance of cells?

She tried to fold the destructions as neatly as they had previously been but struggled to find the exact formation. She tossed it, frustrated. Embarrassed. Disillusioned. Hysterical. All the words used to make women feel small. She examined the pill, covered in foil, ready to be consumed. Flashing bright white, like a knight in shining armour. This was her saving grace. Unveiling it from foil, it burst into her hand. The chalky consistency leaving the slightest amount of residue on her skin, like the seed that was currently trying to find a way to cling inside of her. Take ownership of her body. Like the men she had slept with. Like the men she flirted with. Like co-workers who told her she should be flattered when a drunk boy grabbed her ass whilst she was working. Like the manager that slapped her in the face. And just like the chemist.

She held it delicately up to her eye. She thought of girlfriends who took this little pill like it was a party favour. Choosing this as the alternative to any other birth control, for fear that their catholic mothers would sniff out the fact that they were having premarital sex. She thought of women who had escaped by taking this very tiny, insignificant, pill. She thought of women, legs sprawled on examination tables, hoping to die, scared shitless of the man who had just raped her but finding slight comfort in this tiny white tablet.

She swallowed.

No more words tattooed across her supple belly.

No more fury burying itself inside of her chest.

No more ticking.

A reply.

It was done.

#short story #navigatingyourself #being a woman

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