Or it could be Kazimir. The man who pulled me out of that hell and then pushed me up against a wall and reminded me that I could still be wanted desperately, that I could still feel pleasure, that I was more than the fuckdoll they made me into. A man who I hate, because he let all of this happen to me, and never did anything to help until it was too late to keep me from enduring things I’ll never fully heal from.
I don't know which possibility makes me feel sicker.
If it's from the compound, then I'm carrying a constant reminder of the worst thing that ever happened to me, growing inside my body, taking from me even now.
If it's Kazimir's... what? What does that mean? That I'm tied to him forever? That there's a piece of him inside me that I can't escape?
What kind of father would he be? What kind of life could I give a child with him in it—a man who kills people for a living? A man who is also a reminder of those terrible things, because if he’d just stood up to Ilya…
I can't do this. I can't be pregnant. I can't have a baby.
I can barely take care of myself. I'm living in a motel room I can't afford, surviving on charity groceries from a stranger. I have no job, no money, no support system. I'm alone in a country that doesn't feel like home anymore, running from men who want to kill me or worse. How am I supposed to bring a child into this?
The answer is simple: I can't.
I spend the night on the bathroom floor because I feel too sick to be away from the toilet for long, my arms wrapped around my knees, my mind spiraling through scenarios that all end in disaster.
I think about keeping the baby, about somehow finding a way to survive, to build a life, to be a mother. But every time I try to imagine that future, all I see is failure. I see myself unable to provide, unable to protect, unable to be anything other than what I am right now—broken and scared and barely holding on.
And the question of paternity haunts me. How would I ever look at this child without wondering? Without seeing the face of a rapist or the face of a man who abandoned me? How would I explain to a child where they came from? What would I say when they asked about their father?
I don't even know if I want children. I've never really thought about it beyond the fact that, if I’d married Ilya, I knew I was expected to have them. I would have had to give him heirs. IwastoldI would have children, but I never really considered if Iwantedthem.
But this is a pregnancy born from violence and trauma and/or a moment of weakness in a cabin in the woods. This is a child I didn't choose, didn't plan for, can't possibly care for.
I need to terminate the pregnancy. It's the only option that makes sense.
I can't bring a child into this situation. I can't be tied forever to either my rapists or to Kazimir, and I can’t sacrifice what's left of my life and my sanity. I need to survive first. And a baby would make that impossible.
Somehow, I manage to pry myself up off of the bathroom tile, wash my face and brush my teeth, and get dressed. The older woman at the motel desk doesn’t even look up at me when I ask for the name of any clinics in the area, just rattles off a couple and goes back to watching the soap opera playing on the television behind the desk.
My stomach is in knots, but I quickly scribble down the names on a pad of sticky notes on the desk and head outside. I don't let myself think too hard about it, or I’ll feel the weight of the decision pressing down on me. I just focus on the practical steps. One foot in front of the other. That's all I have to do. The morning is cool and damp, the sky heavy with clouds that threaten rain. I walk with my head down, my hands shoved in my pockets, my mind carefully blank.
The clinic is in a low brick building on a quiet street. There's a small parking lot with a few cars scattered across the spaces… and a handful of people outside, yelling with signs in their hands. My stomach knots, but I keep walking. I've faced worse than judgmental strangers with signs.
I’m walking past one of the cars, a black sedan that I barely notice because I’m so fixated on the front door of the clinic andjustgettingthere, when I feel a hand close around my upper arm, strong and unyielding.
Before I can scream, before I can even process what's happening, I'm being pulled backward, away from the clinic entrance. I try to fight, try to twist out of the grip, but I'm weak. Weeks of stress, trauma, and illness have left me with nothing to fight with.
"Let go!" I manage to gasp, but the hand only tightens.
I catch a glimpse of the man out of the corner of my eye as he pulls me back against his chest—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing dark clothes, his face partially obscured by a baseball cap pulled low.
And then he yanks open the back car door and pushes me inside—more gently than I would have expected. I lunge for the door handle as he closes it, but he’s already in the driver’s seat, clicking the locks shut the instant before he presses the gas pedal, and we lurch forward.
I’m caught. Trapped.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do.
16
KAZIMIR
After she takes those first few tests, she leaves the motel. I can see, even through the fuzzy camera feed, that she looks more distressed than usual. Her movements are jerky and anxious, and she keeps touching her stomach, then stopping herself like she's afraid someone will notice.
Something's wrong. And I have a sinking feeling that I know what it might be.
I keep seeing that pregnancy test, and then the others she took, the sticks on the sink that I couldn’t zoom in well enough to see. I’m not stupid—all of those tests, combined with the fact that she seems to be panicking, add up to something that I can’t quite wrap my head around.
