Unlocked: Sweet Demands Trilogy #3

by A. E. Murphy

  “I’m unsure. I’m looking at her right now and she’s very carefully calm.” He frowns gently. “I know her better than that.”

  I open my mouth, choking on a gulp of air. They know it’s me? How?

  “Breathe,” he instructs calmly. “Breathe and then speak. There’s no rush.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “I did not.” He smiles solemnly. “What you told me was completely confidential.”

  “Then how?”

  “It seems a video was found…”

  I laugh a sharp bark of laughter. “Another video?” Has the world not seen enough of me at my most vulnerable?

  “It hasn’t been released to the public.”

  “Not yet,” I hiss bitterly. “As though my humiliation and near suicide isn’t enough, let’s add a good rape video into the mix so I’m forever reminded of what happened to me. Except not only will I be reminded, I’ll have to watch it over and over and over again. Then there’s the thought that somewhere, somewhere, some sick perverts will wank their flaccid little maggots to it, wishing it was them ruining my body and not Thatcher.” I breathe sharply because that entire rant came out on one breath. “Does everyone know?”

  He nods. “Unfortunately Thatcher’s predicament has made the news and somehow your name was released with that information.”

  “That’s insane!” I yell. “That’s not fair!”

  “I know.” He sits back and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Tobias Lockhart has assured me that he’s taking care of it.”

  “Like he took care of me?” I respond bitterly and then snap, “You’ve been talking to him?”

  “Just this morning when he called with his solicitor to relay the news.”

  Everyone knows.

  “He knows. He’ll never look at me the same way again.”

  “You’re right, he won’t. Nobody will, but it’s up to you what you do with that. If you don’t want them to look at you with pity, then give them your thunder.”

  “My thunder?”

  He nods. “You’ll get through this; you’re strong enough. You don’t want to die. You just want to live in peace.”

  I look away. I hate it when he tells me how I feel, partly because he’s often right.

  “If you truly wanted to die, you wouldn’t have called the one person who would stop you. Deep down, you want this life. You just want to take back control of it and that’s okay, but…” He takes my hand again and taps the angry, red healing slit on the underside of my arm, “we have to get you into a place mentally that supports that subconscious decision without drastic measures. Every injury needs time to heal. Thatcher injured you.”

  “Can’t I just get a nose job, a boob job and shave off my hair?”

  He smirks. “Look at that; you’re joking with me. Yet your joke is in reference to another way to live. You’re a lot stronger than you think. You want this. Deep down you’re relieved it’s out and now you want this. You want to live.” He prods my tender arm, drawing my blazing eyes to his. “Say it. Say you want this.”

  I inhale a deep breath and push tears from my eyes. “I want this. I want to live.”

  “Good girl.” He releases me again and his face becomes carefully indifferent. “Now we must discuss your pregnancy. We cannot push it back anymore.”

  “I know,” I mutter, looking at the small swelling that is my tum. I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s just bloating, but I’m a big carrier. I’m not even six weeks yet and already there’s a bump. “I’ve made my decision.”

  “I’ll support you one hundred percent in whatever you decide.”

  My arms hug my body, my fingers biting into my biceps. “I’m going to terminate.”

  “Then I’ll make the appropriate appointments.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper and stand slowly. “Are we done?”

  “Not yet. I want to know how you feel about possibly having to stand trial.”

  My jaw hits the floor and no small amount of rage at the thought of seeing that man again floods through my burning veins. “Will I have to see him?”

  “No,” He states and I know his word is genuine and final.

  “Then point me in the direction to take that bastard down.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  I shrug. “Because when you said he’d been charged with rape, my first thought was ‘that poor girl. If I’d said something, she might not have been hurt’.”

  “So you’re taking a stand, protecting your fellow humans from such a monstrosity?”

  “Exactly.” A new wave of determination flows through my rage burned veins. “It’s not my fault what happened to me, but it’ll be my fault if I don’t try and stop it from happening to somebody else.”

  “There we go.” He grins warmly, his soft brown eyes twinkling with respect. “That’s your new lease on life right there. Cling to that. That’s your thunder.”

  Joy straddles the chair beside me, moving her rook to a less deadly position on the black and white board. “How does it make you feel?”

  “I don’t know.” I laugh blandly. “I honestly thought they’d called more, but you guys were hiding it from me. It just seems so…”

  “Fake?” She finishes for me, looking at me with her massive brown eyes.

  I always find myself admiring the tattoos on her arms that don’t cover her scars but turn them into something strong and beautiful. I love that she finds courage in them, not shame. I’ve not yet reached that part. Some nights all I can think of is how easy it would be to reopen them and bleed out in the bathtub. It’s a hard thought to shake.

  “Don’t tell Foreman I’ve said this,” she leans in, looking at the crowded room to ensure nobody hears, “because he’ll likely tell me off for saying it but…” She blows a breath through her thick lips and then traps them between her teeth for a fraction of a second. “They’re mad at you.”

  I go to speak but she throws a pawn at me, shutting me up, and continues, “Think of it from their side. You tried to kill yourself. That’s so selfish in their eyes. They’re going through stuff too and they love you. They thought you loved them, so how could you do this?” She throws another pawn at me. “They didn’t understand but now they do. Now they kind of get it; you were suffering and that’s okay. It sucks that they haven’t called. It’s shit that they’ve been piling the blame onto your already burdened shoulders, but they’re calling now, which means they’re looking for your forgiveness and they want to help.”

  I throw a pawn back at her and think on her words. I know she’s right but they abandoned me first when I needed them.

  Or maybe I just pushed too strongly and won.

  Nothing says leave me the fuck alone like dragging a blade from wrists to elbows.

  “They could have called just once.”

  “They have,” she points out. “It might have taken a little time, but I don’t think it’s too late to mend those bridges. You’re going to need friends when you escape here.”

  “Can’t I just keep you?”

  Giggling, she throws the king at me this time and it bounces off my eyebrow. It’s light and made of plastic so it doesn’t hurt. “I tell you what, if you call at least one of them back, I promise I’ll visit when you get out of here.”

  “You’ll visit anyway,” I state, because I can now confidently say that I’ve made a lifelong friend in this place. Or at least I hope I have. Joy has been my rock and I want to be sure to pay her back for that until the day I die, which is hopefully a long way off from now.

  “Humour me.”

  When it’s call time, I go to the phone and touch the cool, cream plastic with my hand. After a moment I lift it and place it to my ear. The dial tone feels like a jagged knife in my ear canal, so I slam it back down and look at the nurse behind her desk.

  “Hey… I got this far, didn’t I?” I snap, making her snort. Then I saunter away and promise myself tomorrow instead.

  “Geoffrey.” I
dip my head to the kindly man who waits and silently watches me deliberate. My chin is raised as I feel a fraction of my former self seep into my body in the form of a sassy attitude.

  He dips his chin back and I all but skip down the sterile hallway and to my room, which is full of books and puzzles - nothing that can immediately kill me, as is expected.

  Unfortunately, my cowardice just does the same again and again, until finally the date of my termination comes around and I wish I had called someone, anyone. I need the support more than I realised. Not that I’d be allowed anybody here.

  They called a doctor in, a private one that specialises in this sort of thing and exercises extreme discretion, or so Foreman said.

  I decide to tackle it alone, without Joy or anyone. This is one thing that I’m alone in. It’s my first step to gaining control back of my body and life.

  I feel awful for coming to this conclusion, but I know it’s for the best.

  I’m not fit to be a mother, especially to a child born from a rapist. It’s just too much for me.

  I tried to kill myself while it grows in my womb. I poisoned my body and spilled my blood. What does that say about me? What kind of mother could I be?

  I’m reckless, careless, immature… the list goes on and on and on.

  The doctor is lovely. She asks me to lie on the bed and makes small talk as she runs the scanner of an ultrasound over my soft yet swollen stomach. It feels a little uncomfortable so I shut my eyes and imagine myself to be anywhere else. Her conversations of what she has planned for the summer help a little but not much. I wonder if the baby is panicking, if it can feel this and knows what I’m about to do?

  That’s a morbid thought.

  As she taps away on the thick keys, the screen turned away so I can’t see, she hums a little so I fall silent, cutting my sentence on what I’m going to order from Taco Bell the second I make it out of here.

  “I’ll be right back.” She makes a point to turn off the monitor so I can’t peek while she’s gone.

  That’s odd. I look at the white wash ceiling and count the circular lights that make a star like pattern. There are eighteen of them. I bet they’re a nightmare to change when a bulb blows. They’re embedded into the actual ceiling so I’m not sure how that would work.

  I keep my mind busy as she’s gone and pray that the choice has been taken from me already and the reason for her sudden silence and departure is because the baby has passed. I’m an evil person with evil thoughts.

  My finger moves through the sticky substance on my bare navel and I send a silent apology to the critter within, wishing things could have been different for us both.

  I always imagined my first time in this predicament would be a happy occasion. I’d be holding the hand of the man I loved and we’d be staring at the flickering heartbeat with loving expressions full of wonder and hidden panic.

  The door opens and I sit up.

  It’s Geoffrey.

  I send a silent thanks to the Gods if there are any.

  “It’s passed, hasn’t it?” I say softly, thinking back to the aspirin I took. I’m not sure how I feel about it all. How badly will I be punished for this sin? Killing my child…

  My eyes fill with tears and a hollow feeling seeps through my soul, chilling it in a way it shouldn’t be chilled. This is what I wanted so why am I so devastated?

  “No,” he says, gauging my reaction. “There’s a small complication.”

  I whip my eyes up to his. “Spit it out then.” I bet it has two heads, or three… or an extra limb… or a missing brain… or…

  “The baby is perfectly healthy; it’s measuring fine,” he states.

  “I don’t want to know this.”

  “You’re further along than any of us thought.”

  My lips part. “What?”

  “Which means, if what you’ve been saying is true, the baby isn’t Richard Thatcher’s.”

  What? “That’s impossible… I took my pill!”

  “And you partied a lot. It’s likely that you forgot a day or vomited,” he explains softly. “Or perhaps this is one of the rare times it fails.”

  I bury my face in my hands and squeeze my eyes tightly shut as though shutting out the world. “How far along am I?”

  “Sixteen weeks and three days.”

  “WHAT?” I screech, bringing the light back. “But… no.”

  “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

  I laugh coldly. “A lot to take in? I’ve been poisoning Lockhart’s child for sixteen fucking weeks!”

  “You didn’t know you were pregnant.”

  “What kind of mother doesn’t know when she’s pregnant for sixteen weeks? I don’t get it. I’ve been having my period.”

  The doctor from before steps into the room and explains, “That’s normal for some women in the first few months, especially when taking contraception. We don’t know why it happens…”

  “Not helping.” I feel sick. “I can’t process this.” I look between them both. “I can’t terminate a child this late in the pregnancy!”

  “I know,” Geoffrey says sweetly, sitting beside me on the bed and placing an arm around my shoulder. I rest my head on his chest and let a single tear fall.

  “I don’t want to be a mother.”

  “I know.” He repeats himself and then releases me. “There’s little that can be done now.” He stands and asks gently, as if worried I’ll bolt, “Should I inform Lockhart?”

  “NO!” I shout suddenly, startling them both. “No. God no. No. This is my burden…” I quickly add when I see them frown, “for now. It’s my burden for now. If you tell him he’ll just smother me. He’ll take me out of here and I’m not ready to leave yet.”

  “And your progress, though brilliant, hasn’t reached the peak I’d need it to be at to comfortably discharge you.”

  I blow out a breath. “I’m actually so glad you agree.”

  “Go back to your room. I’ll send you in a nice cup of tea and some chocolate.” Both are his go to cure for every ailment. “I know it sounds impossible, but try not to panic about your predicament. You do have time. For now let’s focus on your own mental stability and how you’re going to function again in the outside world.”

  Then another thought crosses my mind and my hand goes back to my stomach protectively. “Will they take it off me when it’s born if I’m not better?” When they don’t reply, I inhale a painful breath at the thought of losing it the second I deliver. You hear of tales where mothers lose their children this way and it always scared me. I never thought I’d be in that situation.

  “That won’t happen,” the doctor states and Geoffrey nods his agreement. “It won’t because you’ll be better way before then. You’re already so close. So please, don’t start worrying now.”

  I nod and stand tentatively. “Chocolate and tea.”

  “I’ll send some to your room.” I place my hand on the door handle and suddenly freeze when he adds, “Would it help you to handle if you knew the sex?”

  “You could tell already?”

  “First thing I saw.” The doctor has a smile in her voice; I can hear it. I don’t appreciate it.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat I exhale a breath and reply, “Tell me.”

  “Are you sure you want to know? Are you ready for it to feel real?” Geoffrey asks.

  I nod, still staring at the wooden door and its smooth pattern. “Just tell me.”

  “She’s a girl.”

  I exit the room silently, with pink balloons floating around in my minds eye, praying that one day they’ll bring me joy.

  This morning I thought everything would be solved.

  Now… I’m not so sure.

  As promised, a large bar of Dairy Milk and a hot cup of tea are brought into my room, though not by Joy which I’m disappointed by. I kind of wanted to rant to her. I’m not even sure if she’s on shift today.

  She knows I’m pregnant, but she thinks it’s Thatcher’s.


  I can’t believe it’s not.

  I don’t know how to feel about that.

  I should be happy.

  Do I tell him? Will he stifle me and try to form a relationship with me based on the fact I’m pregnant with his child?

  What if he deems me unfit to raise this child and takes her from me?

  The thought makes me physically ill.

  “No,” I say, biting into my chocolate. I can do this. I can get better. I can be a good mother. I have to try. It’s not like I have a choice.

  Once I’ve finished my happy snack, I head into the hallway and ask the nurse to call Geoffrey. I’m surprised when he comes to me straight away. It normally takes him a couple of hours.

  “Yes, Cerise?” He asks, leaning against my door jamb. I’m currently leaning back, reading a tattered novel about a man who dies and then the woman gets with his brother. I’m not sure this is suitable for people who want to kill themselves. It’s a great book, though. The girls is pregnant too and the guy she’s staying with won’t let her eat bacon. I hate him already.

  “I want to start writing music again,” I say, closing the book and placing it back on the book shelf.

  “You do?” He smiles; it’s slow and easy. “That’s excellent.”

  “For that though, I need access to pens.”

  He licks his lower lip, smacks them loudly and nods as he thinks on it. “Fine,” he says after a few moments. “But you get one pen and you use it in the common room only.”

  “Deal,” I agree, because it’s a start.

  Two weeks ago, I wasn’t even allowed to the nurses’ station alone. Now I’m allowed a pen. An actual pen!

  “You have two hours, then you’re with me. We’re going for a walk. Then you have group therapy and I want you to say the words.”

  “To a bunch of strangers?”

  He nods firmly. “It’s the first major step to your recovery. Soon you’ll have to go out there, pregnant and vulnerable. What’s worse is that not only will you have to explain to your family what’s happened, you’ll also have to explain to a bunch of trolls who will judge you no matter what. The paternity of your child will constantly come into question. The media is brutal.” He steps into my room and pulls a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. Holding it out for me to take, he continues, “If you can’t say it aloud to a small group of just ten people, you’ll never learn to swim again out there.”