Miscarrying A Rapist's Baby.

Taken from real life experience.

The bus was cold, my legs curled beneath me as the wind breathed frigidity upon the glass window. Jim Croce played in my ears and I watched the frost-bitten ground go past, crystals broken by the wheels of the vehicle.

My stop was coming, just one or two more - I spread my fingers on the window and opened them slowly, water wetting my palm and ice melting slightly as the heat bore through the glass. The bell pinged; I looked up, jumped to my feet and exited the bus.

He was waiting for me at the bus-stop. His face exactly as I remembered it, and his eyes as empty and cold as ever. I looked at his eyes and fought back a shiver; he was going to explain everything to me today. I'd finally find out what I had done wrong.

We went to a coffee shop, and I stood at the coffee counter, tipping sweetener into my mug. One, two, three, four. I counted to eight and then stirred, the white power on the surface blending in with the brown liquid. Thirteen stirs.

He was waiting for me at the table, I sat down with his drink and my own and pushed his over. 'Sorry,' I said, aware I'd taken a few minutes. He just sat and looked at me, not my eyes - my lips. I bit them nervously. Get me out of here.

I said I needed to go to the bathroom quickly and he assented, I was gone a minute or two. I just wanted to look at my face in the mirror and remember who I was. He was going to explain what had happened. He hadn't raped me, I was remembering it wrong. But he was going to explain.

Back at the table, the tea tasted bitter. I drank it quickly, energy, please. Energy. Skimmed milk.

Within a few minutes, I began to feel strange. My body was not working at full strength, I was severely underweight and wasn't sleeping. My lids began to close, I managed a couple of words but then my memory goes. All is black.

I wake up on a table, and I cannot see. I can hear male voices, I can hear his voice. I stay still before terror overwhelms me, I scream out 'you did rape me, you did, you bastard, you bastard' before a rough hand catches my mouth, shortly followed with fabric and something abrasive and sticky. Duct tape, I know without having to see.

I have no memory of what happened next.

A few weeks later, I knew something was wrong. I hadn't had a period in months, but I took a test, and it was positive. I was due to start a 8 week ITP course for anorexia shortly afterwards and this was not the right time for a baby. I didn't care. The only good thing that had happened in so long - my body was capable of giving life. Life from the death of myself, which is what the rape had been. Life.

A couple of weeks after starting the ITP course, my panties felt hot and wet. I went to the bathroom and pulled them down, my legs pale against the dark tiles. Pooled between my ankles, caught in the fabric of my floral-printed knickers, was dark, clotted blood. My stomach hurt. I laid my hand against my abdomen and stared unseeingly at the blood. My name was yelled through the door, 'it's lunchtime!'.

I pulled up my tights and my panties, put some tissue in them, and went to lunch. I did not eat. My body couldn't even keep a life intact inside it. I did not eat.
iamusernameless iamusernameless
18-21, F
Jan 10, 2013