Breathe.
Screams a voice in my head. I can’t. My hand is clutched around my throat, fingers unable to move. Trying to block my gullet. Sweat on my forehead, saliva filling my mouth, my skin: electrified – and then the wave hits me.
Through my gullet it shoots, hot and sharp and unstoppable, pressing into my mouth. I give up. And let it all out. Tears and sweat on my face, my body, tortured by its own fluids. Finally, it stops. My stomach: empty.
My head hurts. My body aches. My brain feels cloudy, like packed in bubble wrap. What am I thinking? What. Am. I. Thinking. ?.
I clean the toilet with my eyes closed, just seeing the swirling water, makes me want to puke again. I wet some toilet paper to get rid of the little sprinkles of vomit on the floor. And on the wall. I wash my mouth. I try to have a sip of the cold tap water, but my gullet hurts. I brush my teeth. Again. And again. I even use my fingernails to scratch out my mouth, to get rid of that soft, white layer of skin.
I wash the sink. I take off my clothes. Shower my body, empty half a pack of liquid soap. I wash the disgusting sweat off, under my arm pits, down my back, under my breasts, between my but cheeks. The water is steaming hot. I wish I could boil my skin – to reveal something fresh and new. And undamaged.
I soak my clothes in the tub. Let them float in the soapy water like parts of a dissembled body. Twisted arms and legs. Two purple feet. Detached.
I’ve washed it all away. Every sprinkle. Every tear. Every salty drip of sweat. I’ve washed it all away – but one thing remains.
Or does it?
I kick the lid of the bathroom trash open. It’s still there. A small plastic stick. Blue on one side. Harmless looking. I squat down. What are the chances? The chances that I misread, that the world stopped turning that everything isn’t as it seems. But nothing has changed. I can clearly see the word in the middle of the stick. Pregnant.
I was worried when my period wasn’t on time but then again, aren’t we all a bit late now and then? It must be the stress at work. And didn’t I eat a little too little in the last weeks? After two weeks of waiting, of trying to label even the slightest change of color in my discharge as blood – I took the test. Peed on a stick. Made jokes in my head. Laughed at myself, counted the seconds down. Stopped breathing as the word popped up. My hands clenched my throat in shock.
How a fucking word, made from fucking piss, can change everything. Wow.
I woke up with a body, now it is a vase.
I woke up a woman, now I am a mom-to-be.
I woke up in charge of my future – now I am at the mercy of others.
I was me, now – I’m a public discussion, a political body. An object. And a criminal.
§218 of the criminal law states it clearly: the termination of a pregnancy is punishable by law.
But how did I get here? On the edge of a courtroom, of being called a murderer by some, heartless by many and maybe, maybe brave by very few.
Till some hours ago I was a thirtysomething years old biological woman in a stable heterosexual and mostly monogamous relationship. A woman who enjoys sex with her partner and hates taking pills, so I was a woman who had trained not only her partner in the art of packing his wiener into the rubber – but who was also very good at making it part of the whole experience. In short: we love using condoms. Every damn time.
And still: the pee stick says pregnant. And I’m fucked. I am. Not we. We have sex. I’m fucked.
From now on my body isn’t mine anymore. It belongs to the state, the lawmakers, the church. From now on, more people care to “protect the unborn life” than they care about my wellbeing.
It’s: safe the cellular mash! Trash the vase!
Hello there, can you hear me? No of course you can’t. Right now, there is nothing in my body than a collection of stuff that might or might not turn into a fetus. Just that I don’t want the mash to become a real thing. It’s something I never wanted for my life. I never saw the reason for me being here on earth, was to produce yet another human. I’m happy to just be me, not mommy.
I’m angry!
I leave the bathroom, get dressed and buy another test. And a bottle of my favorite sparkling. And a pack of cigarettes. It’s time to send a message to the mash: you are not welcome here.
I take the test again. The pee stick didn’t change its mind.
And I didn’t change mine.
It’s Thursday 18:47 and we are at war.
Mash versus woman.
Unborn vs born.
A so-called life versus a real on, one that breathes and moves and has friends and a conscience mind and can dream.
Bring it on mash. Bring it on!
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This is an excerpt from my short story “the mash and I” for Popshot magazine