“This way, please,” She says, and I shoulder my purse and hold my phone in a clammy palm. Following her into the back, I look around at all the closed doors. The nurse pauses at a table and hands me a cup with a lid. “The bathrooms right there. Leave this on the back of the toilet with your name on it.”
“Aye,” I walk over to the closed door to step inside, and the stench of antiseptic stings my nostrils. I hate the smell of hospitals. Grinding my molars, I try with all my might not to close my eyes. It hurts, this heavy, thick smell clinging to my skin as I hastily grab a marker and write my name on the label. My lungs ache, and I hold my breath while my heart strains in my chest. “It’s okay- it’s okay. It’s just. . . the doctor. It’s just the doctor.”
Goosebumps blanket my thighs and up my torso as I sit to give a sample. My stomach churns, my labored breaths reaching every corner of the room. Directly across from me is a sign for domestic abuse help, and several strips had been ripped off.
Need Help?
With shaking hands, I screw the cap on the half-full cup and set it on the back of the toilet. When I stand and turn around to flush, memories float at the edges of my vision. Phantom laughter trills in my ears. The smell of beer. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle wildly, and my knees fail to keep me up. Hugging the toilet bowl, I gag viciously as the stench of my own urine stings my eyes and nose.
Arching sharply, my stomach churns, and bile crawls up my throat. There’s nothing to spew, though, and I dry-heave into the toilet. Gasping for breath, I force myself away and clamp my hands over my mouth in a futile attempt to get control of my guts. Scooting away, I scramble to my feet and rush out of the bathroom before my stomach decides to escape my mouth again. The nurse jumps when I throw open the door, and I hug myself as I lean back against the wall with a horrid thud.
Panting harshly, I shake uncontrollably as shame heats my face. Sliding to crouch down, I cover my eyes to focus on breathing. In. . . and in. . . and in. . . until it hurts. Until the reeking stench is gone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” A humorless laugh of self-disgust bursts out of me as my clammy, cold hands fall from my face, and I sniffle harshly. I just want to bang my head against the wall- aye, bang it again and again until there’s no more feelings. No more nightmares. No more nothing.
“Miss?” The nurse crouches in front of me, far away, and snaps me out of my daze. I blink finally, and my heart leaps into my throat. Concern dribbles from her expression. “Are you okay?”
“B- bathrooms ma- make me,” I trail off as my voice rubs my throat raw. The nurse doesn’t say anything as she stands up to enter the bathroom. So easily. So smoothly. She just walked in there without any hesitation! Bitterness sours my tongue, seeping from my cheeks as I brace my hand on the wall. It’s slippery- I’m sweaty, and my knees creak in protest when I stand up. She returns with my purse and phone in one hand and the cup in the other. “Oh, th- thank you.”
“Do you want to reschedule?” She asks worriedly, and I shake my head.
“No. No, I want to get this over with.” I grumble a reply, and she doesn’t protest. Good. If the nurse had pushed, I might’ve rescheduled and then never come back. Glancing back at the bathroom, I tense when she grabs the handle and shuts the door swiftly.
“This way, please,” The nurse says before leading me down the hall. Even my feet are sweating in my socks. Shite- shite. . . why can’t I do something like pee in a cup right? The nurse enters a room, and I follow before she shuts the door and pulls open a drawer. “Put this on if you’re comfortable. The doctor will be in shortly.”
“Thanks, aye.” I say as she sets the prepackaged patient gown on the exam table and slips out. Holding my forehead in my palm, I close my eyes briefly. Exhaling a shuddering breath, I throw back my shoulders. Setting my purse on the chair, I walk to the sink to splash my face with cold water. The shock feels good, and I look at myself in the small mirror hanging above the sink.
I look gaunt, a shell of myself. A pale, sickly, disgusting thing that can’t fucking piss in a cup right. I can’t even cover it up with makeup right. I can’t. . . do anything right.
Baron’s wrong. He must be. Something in me is broken, and I keep picking up the pieces only to cut myself and drop them again. Therapy, medication, a job. . . it’s all worthless.
“Delaney?” I stiffen, looking over at the woman standing by the door. “We don’t have to do this today if you’re not okay.”
“No, I’ll do it,” I whisper hoarsely before realizing that droning in my ears is the water running. Gasping, I slap the faucet and whirl around, clearing my throat. “I’ll do it. I- I have a therapy session after. This- this is good- this is a good. . . time. . . to- um, anyway.”
“Alright. Well, is there anything of concern I should know about?” She asks, and I move to sit on the exam table. Rubbing my face with my palms, I inhale a deep breath and hold it.
“Eight months ago, I was raped. . . in a pub bathroom,” I say quickly while the doctor sets up her laptop on the rolling trolly. “I went to the hospital. I- I even went to a treatment center. I thought, you know, I was getting better. I even. . . met a guy?”
I pause and exhale slowly, trying to get my heart out of my throat and back into my chest. “I have a new job, and a new flat, but. . . I’ve been having nightmares. Every night, almost. It started a few weeks ago. And that’s even if I can get to sleep. A few days ago, I was up all night throwing up. That’s why I made this appointment.”
“You’ve been having regular therapy sessions?” She asks, glancing at me quizzically, and I nod mutely. “And the sickness and nightmares started when?”
“Um, about a month and a half ago for the nightmares. I think I’m just working myself too hard? I’m exhausted all the time.” I answer.
“And the man you’re with? Are you sexually active?” Again, I nod, and she types onto her computer before walking over to me. Goosebumps blanket my arms and across my chest, and I tense when she gently touches under my jaw. “Sounds like you’re doing a lot, Delaney. I think it’s entirely possible you’re just working too hard, but I understand why you’d want to. You seem to be proactive in your recovery, though. How’s that going?”
“I thought I was doing well. . . until the nightmares started. Now, I’m not so sure,” I say as she pulls her stethoscope off her neck. “Baron- I haven’t told him many details, but he knows. He’s really been good about it all.”
The silence pounds against my ears as she puts the cold scope against my chest, and I take a deep breath and hold it. There’s a knock on the door, and the doctor goes to open it before sticking her head out. Whatever she’s being told, I can’t hear, and I frown when she shuts the door and looks at me with a strange expression.
“The nightmares started about a month and a half ago, you say?” She posits, and I nod a third time. Trepidation floods my system, and I clench my hands into tight fists in my lap. “You haven’t had any changes to your medication? Are you still taking the Triazolam?”
“I took it a few times, but I couldn’t function when I woke up,” My answer draws the doctor’s brows together as she moves to her laptop. “It made me feel like a zombie. I took it three or four times and just. . . couldn’t do anything. That was the same week it was prescribed to me.”
“There’s no gentle way to say this, but you’re pregnant, Delaney,” The doctor stares directly at me, and shock strikes me like a lightning bolt. Blinking hard, my addled mind tries to make sense of what she’s saying when her lips part again. “Could be what the nightmares are about. Your body chemistry is changing, so your brain is trying to adjust. It’s not uncommon to experience a spike in anxiety during pregnancy, especially with your attack so recent.”
“W- what? B- but how?” I stammer, my mouth drying. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and my heart stutters dangerously. The doctor smiles sympathetically.
