In the hour of the cicadas, a banging on the door.  Men, dressed in uniform, demand to know, "What happened to the baby?"  Tears.  She lies.  "It was a miscarriage, here at home... there was so much blood."  Handcuffs.  Flashing lights.  Jail.  The pain of loss compounded by the pain of sleeping where no one really sleeps, on hard beds, with strangers and bright lights.  Judgment where there should be compassion.  Hard faces, lacking imagination, unable to comprehend the inner life of a woman in pain.  

(Warning: possibly triggering material)

In a clinic, a young girl sits.  She is fifteen.

Raped, she is silent.  Raped, her thoughts say, loud as thunder.  She knew him.  "Date rape" makes it her fault, partly, they think.  He seduced her with smiles; she sensed something was not right.  She said it, but he didn't listen.  "No."  Angry, he took what he could... much... and left her torn and aching, cleaning up, guilty, confused, small and defenseless.  Angry.  There is blood, pain, semen, dirt.  She will never feel clean again, her thoughts say.  The semen is gone.  No one must know.  

She told no one until she was sure.  In the clinic, she wears a thin gown.  Her wounds are still not healed.  She is sure she does not want this child.  She is sure she does not want her body changed by him.  She is sure.  The doctor demands an ultrasound.  No more pain, she says.  The law demands an ultrasound.  No more pain, she says.  You should let the child live.  No more pain, she says.  I will not scream and labor for anyone.  I want an abortion.

She is remanded to custody.  The baby grows.  When it is of age, they cut her open and take it.


Originally posted to LibbyLady on Thu Apr 04, 2013 at 06:23 AM PDT.

Also republished by Community Spotlight.

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