Finding Destiny

One

The young woman touched her belly as an unfamiliar sensation moved like a bubble floating to the top of a flute. She was aware of the intruder that was making its presence known, but would rather discount the movement to a touch of gas finding its way through her digestive tract. After all, she did not ask to become a fetal-carrier like some animal in the woods. She did not ask to be mounted like a breeding mare with her private parts spread for the taking. The woman, barely so at seventeen, was unprepared for the harrowing experience of an unjust, unloving act that left her womb inhabited with a life she could not acknowledge.

Her mind was racing like a bullet train riding the rails to its next destination determined to stop only long enough to allow its occupants a hastened exit. What should she do? Where should she go to hide the cumbersome entanglement? She knew the final deed must be completed with closure, absent of drugs and little aftercare. It must be done quickly, leaving any establishment as if she were never a resident but only leaving a piece of baggage by the door. Her childlike mind was firm; she would travel to a faraway land inhabited only by monks or nuns. She would ask for entrance with tearful begging, unveiling her belly to secure the pact. After the task had been completed, she would smile in gratitude and be on her way.

For several months, a flurry of internal questions unrelentingly haunted her days. Will there be remorse for her actions? Will she weaken her stance and change her plans? Will there be a moment when she might be tempted to touch the cheek of the interloper to submit the truth of her plight? Realizing there was no time for retreat, or to dally with the thoughts jetting through her mind, she chose to continue her subversion and travel the distance alone.

The Tele, firmly mounted on the wall to assure its safety from thieves, blared its alarm, "A Teen Runaway!" Her finger touched a button to silence the obtrusive bloke. She rolled over on her side just far enough to accomplish a position of comfort without the acknowledgement of her belly's obstruction. The bland room had been her refuge for the last few months as she sequestered herself to allow the intruder its gestation. The corner deli provided her needs for nourishment, the Tele her entertainment. She was well aware of the time sequence involved; she had marked an "x" on the calendar tucked in her pocketbook. Her hibernation must end in two weeks; and then, she will hitch to the manor discovered in a mixture of crazy panic and intellectual calm.

The young woman was an avid theorist who wrote in journals to capture her thoughts before they flew from her mind like a drove of honey bees. Glancing at an entry several pages hence, her eyes spied two words: "Why me?" Then she addressed herself aloud, "Why not me?" Rethinking her question written so blatantly it could not be mistaken for another, she began to pen her thoughts:

Why not me? If there is a God, He (or is it She?) could pick any lonely girl to be a toy for an adolescent Neanderthal's pleasure, and then discarded as if used equipment. If there are human trials for all of us to undergo, why not this one for me? If there is a God and humans have been given the capacity to overcome-to heal and regenerate-then why not experience this malady head on? Do I even have a choice to ignore the encroacher within me which sits like an atom bomb that will eventually explode? I think not.

At this moment, as only a humble human surfacing to breathe, I feel as though I have no right to ask questions. I feel as if I have no right to dream, or even to envision a normal life filled with laughter and love.I feel like a prisoner locked away by my own body.

The girl lowered the cherished journal while considering her thoughts. She adjusted her body again to an upright position on the too-soft mattress. The bed reeked of vinegar stains, a vague attempt to nullify the odor coming from the spots that dotted the coverlet. Folding the bed clothing in-half exposed a grey-tinged sheet abused so often it displayed fraying edges. Reluctant to sleep, she flipped the journal pages again, curious to reread her previous entry:

What a trick! My eyes closed to the probabilities of the night, I made my way to the bash being held to entice the young people of the college. I flagged a motorcar and jumped in not caring if the driver was a lady or gent. It was a gent, rather droll, about forty, who wanted company on his journey to the next casino. His eyes were obsidian black and his hair straight as straw poking unevenly from beneath his trilby. After signaling that my destination was near, he pulled the motorcar to the side, politely smiling a grin of lust.

She closed her journal and tried to remember each step taken while walking to the party that dark October night in 1975. Had she been nervous? Did she have even a hint that her life would be so misdirected in ways too unperceivable to imagine? Not wanting to actually visualize the event for the millionth time, she quickly changed her thinking to impose a random thought to her present expanded awareness: What if I somehow created that night? What if subconsciously, I had a role in my own undoing? She surmised the interesting theory and opened her brown eyes wide to grasp the unconventional concept that suddenly tempted her consciousness. Could I actually entertain this bizarre concept? she silently asked herself. But, if God gives humans freewill, why would we create pain and suffering? Perhaps, He/She isn't on our side after all. Rethinking her position, she said aloud, "Perhaps, He/She is a prankster poking fun at our plights while waiting for us to choose mediocre roles of self-sabotage and destruction, just to laugh at our plays!"

The woman-child closed her eyes to finally allow the dregs of night to bring a morsel of rest to her brain. Alas! Her dreams were of no release as the squatter flayed inside her. The semi-conscious dreamstate took her to depths of sorrow and a longing for a life she felt was rightfully hers to create. Lately, her dreams contained a theme of infants floating to her side, and images of her parents' faces forced with frowns of disgust. She would often jerk herself awake at the slightest vision of her parents, and lay frozen with fear gnawing at the pit of her stomach. It was then that she would grab her pen and write out the dream to capture its essence. Will you ever forgive me, Mum? she thought, as she lay awake, afraid to enter another damning dream. Will you ever understand why I fled from your hearth without a mention of retreat? Your useless words hang in my mind like used garments left for rags in a damp closet. I am sorry.I am so very sorry.

Marking out on her calendar the last few days of the three month siege, she felt a surge of emotion well up from deep inside and lost control of the tears she had shut away so tightly. There were no tears after her attacker finished his deed. There were no tears as she made her way home dabbing with a cocktail napkin the blood running down her leg. She allowed no tears to smudge her makeup two months later when the urine test edged its way into visibility, divulging the trespasser's presence. Tears are for children, her thoughts proclaimed. I am no longer a child. I must remove my burden alone, without the knowledge of another whose eyes would trade the secret to anyone searching. No, no tears. Tears are meant for tots who fall from swings, wet their knickers and scratch their knees, not for young women who know a bit of life and its pitfalls. She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, attesting that her current circumstance was only a reflection of the casualties she had endured.

She had always envisioned her parents as uptight Brits with the emotion of turtles wavering on a piece of wood deciding whether to continue the climb or relent and back away from the challenge. They were nice enough, even caring at times; but, her childhood was fraught with "what-will-the-family-or-others-think" kind of dilemmas. Over and over during her younger years, she heard the neverending questions, "Will the nanny think we are too lenient?" "Will Mum approve of your dress?" "Does your father know you are reading that book?" "What will your teachers think of us if you are late for class?" Most of her young years trod by without an awareness of her parents' mutterings. Then, one day she suddenly felt free from their words that hovered in her brain like vultures eyeing their prey. At that exact moment, her life became her own.

The woman-child had no trouble hiding her current encumbered condition from her parents. After she dealt them her silent solitary hand, their interest in her dashed out the window with the frilly curtains sailing in the breeze. Her anonymity was also not difficult during this necessary respite. It was a bit like playing "Hide the Mouse," carefully omitting a name to her persona. When she needed to sign the hotel register, she used a mysterious name to invoke a curious look from the bint behind the counter. It worked perfectly. As she took the room key, she laughed out loud as she recalled the time she had faked her identification to get into a pub with the name, Candy Duncan. The bouncer knew the candy brand and offered a donkey-laugh while pretending to eat her arm! No, there was no problem in keeping herself unnoticed and unfound.

On the final...