Her big belly pushes the laptop almost to the floor before she puts her feet up, catching it with a soft curse. She can feel tension, constant tension, crawl under her skin like meth bugs, making her want to tear herself apart. It is all she can do to sit here, drinking herbal tea like some square in a Lifetime movie. "She Fought Alone" would be the title, cheesy and empowering. When it becomes too much, rather than jump up from the chair and run screaming from herself, she writes. A giant pen with a plastic flower glued to the end dips and swoops as she scrawls.

I cant STAND this shit, really. CANT STAND IT. My body is a giant, fat, French fry craving stranger, stuffed full of a stranger. I'm like weeks away from giving birth, and I know you aren't supposed to feel how I feel. This baby? I don't even know it. It moves, A LOT now, kicking me and flipping around, letting me know it is THERE. It surprises me. I wish I had just taken the fucking Plan B. Had I done that, I'd be living my regular whiskey filled life. But, NO. My body harbors a fucking fugitive. And what of me, and IT, when IT'S born? Will I see the face I want to see? Hazel-y blue eyes or will they be the mismatched heartless eyes of a rapist? What the FUCK was I thinking? I feel like an abomination, walking around with everyone asking me about IT, and congratulating me for IT, when I feel nothing for IT. It's become a damned if you do, damned if you don't type of thing, really. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought if I hoped hard enough, prayed hard enough, that it would be okay. That IT would come, and we would be us against the world, and shit would work out. Now, Reality rears her ugly head, and that bitch aint quiet. He will leave if this isn't his baby. And I will be alone. What the FUCK was I thinking? Even as I write this, my hand goes to my belly, willing this baby to be his, and not the demon spawn I fear it to be. How can I love IT if it isn't his? How can I love IT if it is his? When we are alone, late at night, sometimes I push back a bulging baby heel, or arm as I see it move under my skin, feel it. "Who is your father, huh?" This, at least, makes me laugh. Tried so hard not to be a statistic, and all....

She throws the stupid assed flower pen across the room, watching with a little satisfaction as it hits the big tree in the middle of the room. Wondering why people ever say making a journal is peaceful, she decides maybe it only works for teenage girls and old people. Heaving herself out of the chair, her hands go to her belly, encircling it, lightly rubbing the ever increasing bump of IT. Shaking her head, she can only swipe at her eyes as she pads out to the pool, robe coming off as she slowly makes her way down into the water, eyeing the hot tub longingly. Underwater, she can cry and no one can see the tears. No one can hear her screams. She has never, ever been so afraid in her life.