Either way, it would be a man I hate.
The nausea surges again, but this time it has nothing to do with whatever sickness is ravaging my body.
No. No, it can't be that. It's stress.Trauma does things to your cycle, I know that. But…
I told myself my breasts still hurt from all the beatings and abuse I suffered, that it was normal bruising. That I was exhausted because of the trauma, the stress, and the flu. I had so many excuses, but now…
Now I can barely think past the horrifying fear that something much worse has come of what I’ve already endured.
I don’t want to think that it’s possible, but of course it is. None of the men at the compound ever used protection. And Kazimir didn’t either. He apologized profusely for it, but that doesn’t change the fact that he came inside of me, too.
Oh God. Oh God.
The room spins, and I have to put my head between my knees to keep from passing out.
I have to know. I grab my jacket and some of what little money I have left—a few crumpled bills that won't last much longer—and I leave the room, barely remembering to lock the door behind me. The drugstore is four blocks away. I walk fast, my head down, my hands shoved in my pockets. The morning is cold and gray, threatening rain, and the streets are mostly empty.
Inside the store, the fluorescent lights are too bright, making my head pound. I find the aisle I need and stand there staring at the rows of pregnancy tests, my vision blurring.
There are so many options. Different brands, different prices, different promises of accuracy. I grab the cheapest one,then grab two more because, what if the first one is wrong? What if I need to be sure?
At the register, my hands shake so badly I can barely count out the bills. The cashier—a tired-looking woman in her fifties—doesn't even glance at what I'm buying. She just takes my money and hands me the bag and tells me to have a nice day in a voice that suggests she doesn't care one way or the other.
I walk back to the motel in a daze, the plastic bag clutched to my chest. Once I’m back in the room, I lock the door and go straight to the bathroom. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to open the first test.
The instructions are simple. Pee on the stick, wait three minutes, look at the result. I follow the directions, set it on the edge of the sink, then back away like it might explode.
Three minutes. I can wait three minutes.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and count seconds in my head, but I lose track around ninety. My mind keeps skipping, jumping to possibilities I can't bear to consider.
What if it's positive? What if I'm pregnant? What if the baby is from the compound? From one of those men who held me down and laughed while I cried? What if it's Kazimir's? The man who deserted me, and then saved me and fucked me and left me here alone?
I don't know which option is worse.
I sit there for much longer than the three minutes, unable to force myself to look at the test and see the verdict. When I finally manage to stand and stagger back to the sink, my heart plummets to my feet, and my knees nearly give out.
The two pink lines are unmistakable.Positive.
I stare at it for a long moment, my brain refusing to process what I'm seeing. Then I pick up the test and throw it in the trash, and immediately take out the second one.
False positive. It has to be a false positive. Those happen, don't they? I read about that somewhere. Tests can be wrong.
I take the second test. Wait for the three minutes. I force myself to count this time and look exactly at the three-minute mark.
Positive.
I throw it away and take another.
Positive.
I sink to the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, and I start to sob. For the first time since I got out of that cell, I cry so uncontrollably that I don’t know how I’ll ever stop, until I’m soaked with tears and snot, choking and dry heaving, the kind of crying that I’ve been trying not to give in to. It takes me over, like I knew it would if I ever allowed it, and I end up in a ball on the floor, curled around myself as if I can protect myself from the truth I’m going to have to face one way or another.
I'm pregnant.
There's a baby growing inside me right now, and I have no idea who the father is.
It could be any of them. Iosef. Grigory. Pyotr. Evan.
