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Flushing Life

It was 2 A.M. as I sat in the bathroom stall, with my pants down to my ankles, examining the toilet paper I held in my hand. It was bloody. I had stopped taking my birth control pills about half a week after starting. I convinced myself that the reason I was feeling so sad all the time recently was because of the pill, and all the hormones was making me, well, hormonal. I remembered a phone conversation with my mom. I asked her if it was a good idea for me to take the pill, but even after she told me it was a bad idea to mess with my body or put anything into it that wasn't "natural", I decided I was adult enough to make my own choices. I guess I wanted to feel adult enough, but as the bloody pad sat beneath me in my underwear, I felt like a child covering up a mess I had made with a bandage. I bled as my body convinced itself of the miscarriage I must be having, and as I continued to observe the toilet paper in my hand, I pictured a broken fetus splattered across the paper like it was hit by a car. I began to cry, clenching the paper in my hand. I didn't know why I was crying, and as I questioned this myself, I told myself it was because of multiple reasons. I told myself it was because no one liked me. My room mate had just come home from God knows where, and I was disappointed. I was celebratory of the fact that for one night I don't have to face passive aggressive comments and cold stares. I wasn't sure what I was doing or what exactly I did or said to offend her, but whatever it was must of have been satanic, because one day I was an angelic figure and the next I was the Devil. Like I had fell down from heaven and entered straight into hell. But she wasn’t gone for the night. And as she walked in at 1 A.M., I greeted her with a warm hello. Trying to break the ice, that had seemed to form as the winter began to turn into spring, I told her I had tried to work on my essay, but got distracted watching Grease Live on Netflix and it all went down hill from there. She didn’t reply. She didn’t laugh or say anything, God she didn’t even tell me she didn’t care or to shut the fuck up, she just stayed silent. I left the room and entered into a common room which held a television, a microwave, a couch and a couple of chairs. I sat in one of the chairs, opening up the laptop which laid itself in my lap. I was finally able to focus on my essay, occasionally glancing up at the students huddled around together watching a video, mesmerized by a single iPhone held by a single student. Like this small, minuscule screen was what was holding them all together. Like a secret bond. A secret bond that I guess I never understood.

I stepped out of the room. I had decided to call my dad and tell him about the weird occurrence that had just happened in my own room, a couple doors down. But after a few short responses, I discovered the story might have not been as weird or funny or whatever the fuck it was as I thought it might have been. “I’ll let you go,” I told my dad. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he responded. I knew he wouldn’t. We hadn’t spoken in almost two weeks, except for a few texts where he asked me if I read the email he forwarded me from my college. “Yes,” I would respond. “How are you by the way? Haven't heard from you in a while.” No response.

So that’s when I made my way to the bathroom stall and cried, as I discovered the dead, fake fetus lying inside of my underwear. I called Nick, my boyfriend. He was always really great to me and he always told me he cared, so I decided he would be the best person to call. I looked at the time. I knew he’d be asleep but I figured I’d give it a try anyways. No answer. I left a voicemail. I’m not sure why I left him a voicemail. I never leave voicemails. Every time my grandmother would call and leave a voicemail, I would text her telling her that she doesn’t need to leave a voicemail. I would see that she called and I would call her back once I saw. She told me she liked the idea of leaving little memories behind in my phone so whenever I needed her or wanted to hear her voice, I always had her in the back of my pocket. I never needed her though. She so badly needed to be needed, and that’s exactly why I never needed her.

So I left him this pathetic, awkward as hell, waste of a voicemail and decided to call someone else. I looked through my phone and cried realizing there was no one left to call. My best friend back home wouldn’t understand this and my parents never really cared. I wondered why the fuck I even had a cell phone to begin with. I’m not calling or texting anyone, or haven’t since Nick. What was the use of it. No one bothered to ever check in with me. And I hate sounding like a desperate, nagging fuck, but fuck it. That’s exactly what I am. A desperate, nagging fuck that feels miserable all the time and no one really likes to spend time with. But fuck it. Who cares? People go around this fucking Earth pretending. Pretending they are happy all the time. Pretending that they aren’t scared of the future with their big internships and happy-go-lucky attitudes. And I always loved that about myself. I always loved my ability to admit to myself that I don’t have to be happy all the time, or be sure about my future. I’m not. Fuck faking it till you’re making it. I’m real and what I feel is real. I’m lonely and desperate and scared of the future. I’m needy and crave attention but that’s okay. Because I’m a human being. And human beings are disgusting, desperate animals. But human beings also feel things that other living things can’t feel and human beings are beautiful and create art with their loneliness and desperation. And I am beautiful and I feel things and I create art and I am a human fucking being. So fuck you for trying to not be.

I left the bathroom, flushing my fake miscarriage down the toilet behind me.

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