I gave no mind to the possible terror that one day soon a tenacious sperm might win the fight, regardless of our methods.
As we crawled into bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms, I didn’t dream of what would happen if that day ever came.
I was naïve.
I was in love.
I was stupid.
Our romantic swim marked the calendar as the 14th of May.
It was a day I would always remember, because, unfortunately, life wasn’t done throwing us bad luck.
.............................
Four nights later, my tummy cramped, reminding me that my period was due and to prepare a few rags.
However, a few days later, my breasts were swollen and nipples tight and my uterus ached, granting a few spots of blood.
But no normal flow.
I stared at the clean rag that I’d shoved in my bikini bottoms and froze completely solid.
No.
No.
No.
No.
This couldn’t be happening.
This can’t be true.
We’d been so careful.
It’s just...not possible.
It was a joke.
I smashed my eyes with my fingertips, trying to destroy every thought.
No, that wasn’t possible.
It’s not possible.
The concept of pregnancy was more than a silly fear. It was the scariest, terrifying, most horrifying nightmare imaginable.
And my brain couldn’t cope.
So instead of thinking rationally and discussing calmly, I went into freak-out mode.
I shoved the rag back into my bikini. I yanked up my shorts. I pretended this was normal.
My body had finally used up whatever vitamins it had left and ceased to have a period. I wasn’t pregnant (don’t be so stupidly absurd), I was merely malnourished and island wrecked.
Yes, that was it.
I was stranded and stressed and my body had finally gone into survival mode.
I’m not pregnant.
Never.
Not at all.
.............................
By the end of May, I knew.
I think I’d known all along.
I just couldn’t admit it.
The moment I’d agreed to a physical relationship with Galloway, I’d invited this to happen.
I’d done this.
I’d condemned myself to die.
Me.
Not him.
No one else.
Me!
Tears ran down my cheeks as I swiped at the strands of hair sticking to my sweaty forehead. The wet splash of morning sickness decorated the bush where I’d hidden to purge my breakfast.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You might not be pregnant. It might be food poisoning.
My mind ran crazy, hurling excuse after excuse for my nausea and foreign feeling body.
Despite nine months on the island, we’d only suffered tummy upsets once or twice. (I’d had a few more because of my sampling trials). But we’d all been incredibly careful about what we ate and drank, doing our best to preserve our health as much as possible.
I wanted so much to believe it was a gastric issue.
But my heart knew.
My instincts knew.
My femininity knew.
Galloway had pulled out every time, but it hadn’t stopped the small amount of semen in his pre-ejaculate from somehow defeating my stupid eggs.
I was now knocked up and island bound.
All alone with no medical help or anyone to turn to.
I had to face facts.
I had to cry my tears and be strong.
I’d done this.
We’d done this.
And now, we had to live with our creation.
It was official.
I was pregnant.
.............................
JUNE
A few weeks passed.
And for all my bravery of telling Galloway what’d happened, I...I couldn’t.
When I’d returned to camp (after throwing up again) with balled fists and fretting in my soul, I’d found Galloway carving a new spear and Conner plaiting Pippa’s hair.
The scene had been the perfect family, and my eyes prickled with tears at the thought of leaving them.
Of dying in child-birth.
Of delivering a malnourished baby who wouldn’t survive like these wonderful people had.
My throat closed up, and I hid my secret.
I pretended it wasn’t real.
For weeks, I wore my baggy t-shirt rather than my bikini, claiming sunburn (just in case I started to show). After all, my skinny frame wouldn’t be able to hide the growing bump for long.
As the days passed, I smiled and laughed and accepted Galloway between my legs all while harbouring my nasty little secret.
When we met for our midnight rendezvouses, I wanted to tell him he could come in me. That there was no point pulling out.
But I couldn’t.
Every time I sucked up the courage to tell him, it trickled away at the final second.
He wasn’t stupid.
He knew something was wrong with me. He watched me closely, he questioned me quietly, but he didn’t push me to tell him.
I supposed he thought I’d admit it in my own time. Or who knew...perhaps, he’d already guessed?
Either way, I couldn’t speak the words.
I couldn’t get my mouth to form the condemning sentence...
I...am...pregnant.
No.
I can’t.
So I remained stupid and silent.
And did something I wasn’t proud of.
One night, I stalked through the plants and bushes that once upon a time, I’d avoided because of failed scratch tests or belly ache. I stood in the dark and wondered, just wondered, if I ate a few poisonous leaves...would it stop this disaster from happening?