• Imagine this. Your best friend tells you about this incredible party going on this weekend, and she manages to create a foolproof plan where you and her can go. You’re excited; you’ve been on the market for a boyfriend and you’re dying to see and be seen. Plans are made and accomplished, and you are rockin’ at the party.

    In the crowds you see him, Mr. Bright-Smile-Bright-Future. The charming boy that your mother coos over and makes all the girls swoon. He makes his way over to you, and you work your best to dazzle him. He doesn’t even seem to notice the other girls trying to drape themselves over him; he’s only got eyes for you. Bravely you drink, trying your best to impress him as you match him beer for beer.

    He asks if you’ll go on a walk with him, and you swear it’s not just the beer that’s got you high and flying. Your heart is skipping as you go outside, and your imagination goes into overdrive as you imagine your friend’s face when you tell her about this night. He takes your hand, murmuring sweet compliments that you can’t quite hear over the window-shaking volume of music coming from inside. He kisses you, and you wish that your friends would come out and see this so you could all commemorate this moment forever.

    You’re kissing, and he’s saying things into your ear that makes your vertebrae clink as you shiver. He wants you, wants your body and wants you to himself. You try to pull away, to tell him to slow down, but he’s not complying. He’s pushing you down and unzipping his pants and you scream a little but you can’t hear yourself through your blood pounding and the music blaring. He’s hurting you and you’re desperately wishing someone, anyone, will come out and see and pull him off and save you from this fate.

    But you’re alone; just you and him as he takes your virginity and leaves with a smile and a zip of his pants and you’re sick to your stomach as you cry into the grass.

    You head home, and your mother greets you in surprise and asks you how was your friend’s house, your alibi, but you can’t meet her eyes because you know you’ll start crying. She, like most mothers, can sense somethings wrong and manages to stare into your eyes with that tone that makes you want to be little again. And you cry, sobbing for forgiveness as the story spills out and you’re clutching her skirts as she just holds you in shock, unable to believe that her baby is broken so quickly.

    Your father comes downstairs, alert from the commotion, and takes one look at the both of you crying and asks what the hell happened. Your mother starts to tell, but at the word rape he yells about going for his gun and how he’s going to skin that sonuvabitch alive. On the floor you continue to cry, begging God for a do-over, a second chance to save yourself. The ceiling is silent, no heavenly response, no divine intervention, and you sink further down until you feel like a lowly worm, squirming in your agony.

    You are rushed to the Emergency Room, where they inspect and poke and photograph the bruises and the pain, confirming your story and stacking up evidence. They swab for DNA, and you cry because it frightens you. The world is so scary right now, and no amount of hugs from mother can make the world go back. This is no nightmare, just the hellish reality of life.

    They give you a pill, saying it should help to prevent pregnancy. They say it’s got a good rate, and you should be all right. You go home and cry yourself to sleep.

    Your world is changed. Your father is angry, wanting to murder the boy that they’ve barely started to charge with rape. Your brother is like your father, wanting the death-penalty for the one who ruined their lives. Your mother is paranoid, watching you from the windows when you go to get the mail and driving you to school, unwilling to let you go alone. On nights when you can hold back your tears, just for a bit, you can hear her quiet sobs as she mourns her daughter.

    One morning you wake up, and your stomach is churning and you begin to vomit. You’re scared, but you don’t say anything. The memories of the hospital, with the masked doctors and the swabs and machines stay your resolve. You tell your friends, however, and one buys you a home pregnancy test.

    At lunch you go to the bathroom, and take the little plastic stick out of it’s box and relieve yourself on it. You wash your hands and stare at yourself in the dirty bathroom mirror, clenching the edges of the sink as you desperately pray in your mind. The wait is up, and you stare at the stick with the tiny red plus sign on it. There is no heart-felt single in the background, no elation, no jumping for joy at the idea of life in your belly. There is only the dim bathroom and the shaking of your hands as you sob into the china bowl of a toilet. Your friends come in, hearing your sobs and understanding the worst. They rub your back, whispering comfort and trying to comprehend what you’re going through.

    You get up, rub your eyes, and say that you better tell your parents. They nod and follow a tiny bit behind; a shell-shocked group with the word pregnancy on their lips. You hate the word, it suddenly seems so ugly and abrasive to you. You kick open the door, feeling the satisfactory shock of your foot hitting the metal bar. The jarring travels up your leg and into your hips, and you imagine the shock shaking the little fertilized egg nestled in your womb. You force your thoughts away and storm off, one friend brave or foolish enough to follow.

    You burst outside, eyes swimming with tears as you try to think of what’s going to happen. Your friend is beside you, a mixed source of comfort and envy, walking with you and talking quietly about what it is you think you should do. You call your father, begging him to pick you up, and you know he’ll be there soon. You try to shoo your friend away, telling her class will start soon, but she doesn’t care. She’s stubborn and apologetic, trying to make things right as she waits with you in the brisk fall air. You see your father drive up, and she finally agrees to leave. You watch her in the review mirror, tiny as she slips into the distance.

    You tell your dad you’re pregnant, and he pulls to the side of the road so he can cry. He holds you tenderly, like when you were small, and you both cry together. He takes you home and calls your mother, who rushes home from work to hear the terrible news.

    They take you to a doctor, and they take blood and do tests to confirm the news. Your parents argue quietly, both so lost and so stubborn on what to do with their new grandchild. They don’t want you to abort it, but your mother wants nothing to do with it. Your father both hates and loves the child, and his pride won’t allow him to give it up. So they argue, and you sit in silence, begging God for an answer, a sign, anything.

    Nothing comes, and you slump in your seat, before breaking down into tears once more.