Trigger warnings: rape and abortion. 18+ readers only.

The characters and the actions in this story are completely fictional. Names, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead or resemblance to any previous event is entirely coincidental. This story does not reflect on the actions of the author.

Maldives eyes. That was my nickname for him. Those glassy blue eyes. A color you only see on an ocean in a luxurious place like the Maldives.

Before, I looked into those eyes as if they were a slice of paradise. Now, those Maldives eyes are flooding over, ravaging like a tsunami.

He holds me by the throat with one hand. With the other hand, he drags my leggings down to my mid-thigh, giving him enough wiggle room to ram his dick inside me.

I don’t scream. I don’t bother. Derek is a lot bigger than me. If I cry for help, who knows what he would do.

But the pain. The pain. My vagina is drier than fresh dough. I never experienced pain like a man forcing his penis into a non-aroused vagina. I will never take natural lubrication for granted ever again.

That first shove feels like my bottom half is about to rip open. Every tiny nerve ending is on fire, Derek’s penis only adding fuel to the flames with every thrust.

So, this is what rape is like.

Rape is finally answering your ex-boyfriend’s text messages after a month of ignoring him. Rape is second-guessing your decision to break up with him. Rape is feeling bad for him, even though he tried to control every aspect of your life. Rape is arriving at his home, feeling his strong arms pin you against the wall, his sour breath screaming awful names like “anorexic whore,” and then those massive hands dragging you to the bed so he can shove his erection into a scared vagina.

But rape isn’t any of those things. Rape is looking at those Maldives eyes. Those eyes you loved and trusted. The Maldives eyes you used to bathe in, welcoming the crystal blue waters on your skin. Now, you’re drowning in those Maldives eyes.

Derek finishes. Inside of me. Why should I be surprised? He hated pulling out. Would make me feel guilty about asking him to pull out. The difference is before, I was on birth control. I finished my pack after breaking up with him. I’m not on insurance, and not taking birth control is another way to save on my already-low full-time law student budget.

Derek collapses right next to me. I jump over him on the bed and run. I don’t pull my pants back up. The way to the front door is a straight shoot. I bolt toward the door, not looking back. I grab my purse and open the front door, my short legs flying outside. The dry Texas air mocks me as I grab my keys with a swift hand. I get myself in the car and pull out of his driveway. I don’t look behind me as I floor it out of there.

Should I still look back? No, I shouldn’t.

Two pink lines. I would never have thought two pink lines would feel like death. My whole body goes numb. I can’t speak or move. Hell, I can hardly breathe.

Two pink lines. They stare up at me in a mocking manner. Everything I worked for is gone. Passing the LSATs. Law school. Gone. The two pink lines are ruining my dreams of becoming a lawyer. Those two little lines laugh at me, shrouding me in guilt and shame.

“Fuck!” That is the only thing I finally manage to say.

I get the courage to put down the little white pregnancy test.

I rise from the bed and look in the mirror. I gaze upon my childish features. My short hair and large doe eyes make me look more like an elementary school student rather than a rape victim and a pregnant 20-something-year-old.

I tease my hair. Why? I don’t know, as a distraction from the fact that my ex-boyfriend raped and impregnated me. Teasing my short hair doesn’t do anything. I always hated keeping my hair long. It’s too much work to brush and maintain.

There’s never enough time when you want to be a lawyer. Not enough time to brush your hair. Not enough time to eat, which is why I’m so thin. And there is not enough time to be pregnant and a mom.

“I can’t do this,” I tell myself in the mirror.

I know when someone judges me. The sensation feels like ice-cold rain. A cloud that hangs over me, engulfing me in the rain.

I thought I felt the worst of this judgment until I tell the obstetrician’s office that I want an abortion. Instead of the tropical thunderstorm of judgment, I receive a category 5 hurricane. The woman at the counter looks at me with hateful eyes so powerful that it feels like harsh winds are spreading across the office, knocking me off my feet.

The effects of the judgment hurricane extend to the ultrasound. The sonographer looks at me with a bleak expression as if she was the eye of a hurricane.

“Eight weeks,” is all the sonographer says. “You can’t have an abortion in the state of Texas.”

The pouring rain of the judgment hurricane mixed with the jelly on my abdomen chills my body from the inside out.

The sonographer shoots her category 5 hurricane eyes to me and turns on a sound.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

“The baby’s heartbeat,” is all she says. The heartbeat plays in the room like a broken record.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

I put my hand over my heart, feeling my heartbeat. My mind drifts off to a memory of my grandma. A macabre conversation we had.

“That heartbeat,” grandma said as she pointed to my chest, “that heartbeat is everything. Once your heart stops beating, it’s over. You’re dead.”

Dead? Dead. No rape baby. No motherhood. But law school and a future successful career as a lawyer? Yes.

I will stop this baby’s heart from beating. No matter what.

Another four weeks pass. I struggle with multiple companies telling me they can send the abortion pill to my house, then retract their statement. Now, I’m no longer able to have a pill abortion.

I’m out of options — except for my wire hangers.

Giving yourself an abortion is more complicated than it looks. I keep poking myself in the labia with the hanger. Not going to lie, poking your sensitives with a wire hanger is not a pleasant feeling. I should have asked my cousin to come over and help me. Oh well. Too late.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

I take a deep breath. Okay, Erica, you can do this. Ram it up there. If Derek could do that with his dick, you can do that with this hanger.

I take another deep breath. I close my eyes, so I don’t have to see that sharp thread. I stab that hanger as fast and deep as I can until —

Squish.

I gasp. I don’t feel any pain, but shock engulfs me. I hold my breath in, not comprehending that I stabbed this fetus with a hanger.

When I’m finally able to let my breath out, I pull.

“AHHHHH!” The pain is unbearable as I wretch the spawn from my cervix. My insides are screaming as its tiny body slides down my womb.

Slime and blood ooze out of my sensitives as I pull out the fetus’ head. I see its pink head crowning. Its eyes are closed, looking like pebbles among its large head. I continue pulling, revealing its bloated alien body. Its feet finally emerge from my vagina.

I lay it out on the sheet in front of me. So, this is it? The miracle of life? The most “beautiful” thing in the world? Seeing a child you birthed, regardless of whether or not it was from rape?

This…thing, I’m not sure if I want to call it a human, is a shriveled up. Its puffy skin and colorless eyes make it look like a small sea creature rather than a human fetus. It’s tiny, about the size of my hand. Its arms and legs are the same sizes as spider legs, curling around its bloated body.

So, the state of Texas worships this creepy sea creature-like thing more than a tax-paying citizen?

“Is it dead?” I ask out loud. The hanger is still in the fetus’ head. I wiggle the hanger around. The fetus makes no movement of its own.

Still, I want to be sure.

I yank out the hanger — blood pouring from the fetus’ head — and stab it in the chest. The hanger slices through its jelly flesh like a knife in butter. I stab it once, then again. And again. And again.

I can’t stop stabbing it. I know it’s dead. It has to be.

I hate everything about this tiny nematode thing that was growing inside of me. I hate how this country only cares about me giving birth. I hate how my only worth is that of a mother. No, not of a lawyer. Why would a woman be a lawyer in the first place? We’re only meant to give birth to our nematodes and raise them.

I finally stop stabbing. I look down at the fetus. I hacked up, so it’s now a gory mess. My hands are covered in blood and slime as I pick up the nematode. Its flesh feels slimy like raw eggs. I pick it up, my fingers penetrating the skin. The cold ooze runs down my hands.

I put the fetus back down and grab one of its little appendages. The bone is still soft. I break off the appendage like a chicken leg. I do this with all appendages. I wrap up the dismembered fetus in the blanket and walk outside.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”

I hate my fucking neighbors. Who leaves their dogs outside in Texas weather? I called animal control on them once. The neighbors feed the dogs and give them water, so they said there isn’t anything they could do.

“Woof! Woof!”

The two dogs look like some type of pit bull mix. One dog is white, and the second is brown. I never know how much love their asshole owners give them, so I make sure I give them attention when I see them. They seem scary, but they’re not. I know the drill with these two. After their barking fits, they always look at me with lovey eyes and wag their tails. I then hold out my hand, and they accept my pets with happy dog smiles replacing loud barks.

At this point, they recognize me. But their barking fit doesn’t stop as I near them. I know why. They smell the fetus.

The streetlights illuminate the dogs as they stand at the edge of the fence, waiting for the succulent snack. I reach into the blanket and pull out two appendages. The dogs whine, and one starts drooling.

I turn to the one drooling first. “Sit,” I command. The dog gives me ecstatic whines as it sits. I reach over the fence and hand the dog the appendage. He jumps up, hooking the tender meat in its teeth. It runs away with glee toward its doghouse as it nibbles on the appendage.

I do the same with the other dog, who accepts its snack with the same amount of joy.

Both dogs are sitting in the yard, munching on their appendages. But I can’t dump the rest of the body like a garbage bag. I wait until the dogs finish devouring the appendages before handing them another — making them sit for me first.

I break up the rest of the body into little pieces, throwing them to each dog. They see the “play catch with dead fetus parts” thing as a fun game, their mouths gaping open in cute dog smiles as they accept the little bits of meat.

We play this game until only the head is left. I put the blanket down and grab the head with both hands. The skin is soft like the rest of the body. I break the skull with both hands, exposing the brain. The pink color gleams in the streetlights. It’s lumpy, hardly even a complete human brain yet.

I reach over the fence, dropping the head with slow and steady hands so the brain doesn’t spill out. One dog picks up a part of the brain with its mouth, its mighty jaws breaking it up like taffy. It walks over with the brain in its mouth while the other dog munches on the skull with glee.

I kneel on the ground while I watch the dogs eat the rest of the fetus. When they finish, they walk over and realize there’s no more fetus left. I can see the disappointment in their sweet eyes, but they perk up when I reach my hand between the fence chains and give them pets. The dogs bend their heads to accept ear scratches while I coo, “you’re the best boys ever,” though I try to be as silent as possible. I switch to the dogs’ chests, scratching as they nudge their furry bodies closer.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

Their hearts are beating below my hands like a small drum.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

As I open the door, my heart is still racing. The air conditioning gives me a sweet “hello” as I escape the Texas heat. I so wish I could take those dogs in with me.

Blood and goo still cover my body, so I take a quick shower. I stand underneath the warm water, feeling my heartbeat calm with every passing second.

Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

I turn off the water and wrap myself in my robe. I grab a towel, drying my hair as I walk to the living room. My laptop is on my dining table. I turn it on and pull up my legal research document. This assignment is due next week, and I can’t procrastinate anymore.

Usually, I’m not too fond of Monday mornings. The hangover-filled festivities from the weekend are only starting to formulate in my mind while my professor forces us to discuss intricate acts in civil and criminal law.

But today, I enter my class with a new perspective.

Law binds us in many ways that we don’t imagine. The law can serve us well, protecting us and ensuring our rights as citizens. But some laws are only fair to some and harmful to others.

The law isn’t perfect, but it can change. And I can be that change.

As my professor yaps in this constitutional law class, I contemplate my career goals. I will open a women’s rights legal practice. No, I will become a sexual assault lawyer. No, I will become an animal lawyer. Or I will become a constitutional lawyer and make my way to the Supreme Court, and I will make sure that no woman will ever have to give herself a coat hanger abortion again.

“Once your heart stops beating, it’s over. You’re dead.”

I put my hand over my heart. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. I have a heartbeat. Everyone in this classroom has a heartbeat. All humans have a heartbeat. Those two dogs have a heartbeat.

The heartbeat of a fetus isn’t the only one that matters.

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