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?
Could I bring on a miscarriage through natural means?
Or would I kill myself before the baby had a chance to?
In a bottomless moment of weakness, I plucked a leaf from one particular bush that’d given me wicked cramping and held the foliage to my mouth.
So close.
It could all be over.
I touched my bottom lip with the bitter flavour but at the last second, threw it away.
I didn’t want to die.
So why would I be so stupidly reckless when I had a chance (a very small chance) of surviving this birth? Besides, how could I possibly think of killing something created from love?
I wasn’t that person. I would never be that person. Even if it meant sacrificing myself.
Striding from the forest, I never considered forcibly removing my mistake again. In fact, I made a pact to stop thinking about it so I wouldn’t drive myself insane.
All month, I managed to avoid the topic, and some hours, I even forgot. That was until I brushed my breast and flinched because it was so sore. Or I touched my stomach and the strange tightness in my belly felt alien.
It seemed like only yesterday that Galloway had thrust inside me in the tide. And yet a month had passed and already nature prepared my body for its disastrous conclusion.