When I stopped bleeding

Linea nigra dark midline streak on a 22 weeks ...

Linea nigra dark midline streak on a 22 weeks pregnant female. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

by Robin Blogs About It

I met you when I was incarcerated. You would sneak into my cell in the middle of the night when no one else was on duty but you. It was a small facility for juvenile offenders and I had been caught running away from home. At night they only needed one person on duty. And that was you.

You flirted with me and I felt pretty in my baggy blue jumpsuit that looked just like everyone else. You took me and my best buddy in there outside one night in front of the place to smoke cigarettes you had bought for us. Then later you unlocked my cell, my enclosed room with the stainless toilet and the camera in the ceiling, and you took my baggy jumpsuit off and made me feel desired like a woman.

When I was released to a group care home you called on me like it was a real date. But instead of taking me out for a pizza or a movie, you took me back to your apartment and we had sex. Then you took me back to the group care home.

You stopped calling. Your roommates fielded my calls. They told me you were at work, or playing tennis. I stopped calling and then I stopped having my period.  

I called more and more after that. I was scared. I thought I was pregnant and I wanted you to make me feel like a woman again. Finally one of your roommates asked me to stop calling there. Your girlfriend had moved in and you two were going to get a place together and get married. Your girlfriend? I told him I was pregnant and he said he would give you the message. You still didn’t call me.

Finally one day you did call. You hoped you hadn’t waited too long. You hoped it wasn’t too late. You had made an appointment for me and would pick me up that weekend. I had to figure out how to sneak away for a night or two.

You picked me up in a powder blue Mustang. It was your girlfriend’s car. How odd that you would take me to a cheap motel and screw my brains out the night before taking me to get an abortion, in your girlfriend’s powder blue Mustang.

I remember waking up in that cheap motel the next morning. My appointment was early and I didn’t have a change of clothes. The sheets were bloody and I was trying to clean myself up. I told you we didn’t have to go to the clinic. I was sure I was okay. I didn’t know. You made me go anyway. You wanted to be sure.

You took me inside. You paid your money. They asked for extra to put me to sleep for the procedure but you opted not to pay any extra. I sat in the plastic chairs feeling blood wet my panties. The only panties I had with me.

I passed a girl in the hallway that had been sedated. The nurse was helping her walk to the recovery area. She was stumbling and crying. It scared me.

I laid there like a trooper while they explained what they were doing. It was all matter of fact. There was a poster on the ceiling of a cat hanging on a branch. The poster read Hang in there baby! I thought that was some sick irony. I watched as blood, my own blood, raced through the tubing into the drain below. It hurt. I cried.

They brought me out to you in the waiting room and you never asked if I was okay. You never asked how I felt about any of it. I never told you that I was never pregnant. I never told you that all they did was clean me out. They wanted their fee for the abortion. They wanted you to get your money’s worth.

I cried all the way back to the small town we both lived in. I cried all over the upholstery in your girlfriend’s powder blue Mustang. You never said a word.

You dropped me at a friend’s house. I couldn’t go back to the group care home yet. I spent the night on the floor of her living room. The next day I sat in her apartment and waited for her to come home from work so she could take me back to the home. She tried to talk to me. I listened, but I didn’t really hear anything she said.

I called you. You wouldn’t take my calls. Your girlfriend started answering the phone. She didn’t know what you had done. She thought I was a kid with a school girl crush. You had resumed your life. You went back to your graveyard shift at the facility. You moved in with your girlfriend. You wanted to erase me and so you did.

I called the facility one day and I told them what you had done. They recorded my testimony a few days later and you were fired. You were never labeled as what you truly were though. A thief of precious memories. A man leaving a girl in ruins. A child molester.

You called me again many months later. You begged to see me. You were living with your girlfriend and engaged to be married. I allowed you to come. You picked me up in your fiancee‘s powder blue Mustang, but instead of taking me out for breakfast like you promised, you took me to the river.

You opened the trunk and pulled out a blanket and spread it on the shore. You asked me to sit next to you and I did.

You reached for me and tried to kiss me and I pulled away from you. Your eyes looked sad. You asked me not to pull away, but I stood up. I wanted to go back home. You got up. You rolled up the blanket and put it in the trunk of the powder blue Mustang and took me back home.

I never saw you again. I stopped taking your calls.

You married the girl with the powder blue Mustang and you had children and lived in a big house in a neighborhood in the small town where we both lived. They never knew what you had done. They never knew who you really were.

You never realized the day I stopped bleeding.

I was fifteen years old and you were twenty five.

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About Madeline Scribes

A writer with a sense of humor. If anyone can laugh at life, it's me.
This entry was posted in Memories good and bad and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to When I stopped bleeding

  1. Regyna Longlank says:

    I am so sorry this happened to you. Men who prey on girls in jail are a certain breed of monster worse than other rapists. He knows what he did. Even if no one else does.

    Thank you for sharing your story. I hope that stop bleeding is a metaphor and this didn’t leave you with physical scars to match your invisible ones. Sending you love, RLL

    Like

  2. Pingback: My Writers Cramp | My Writer's Cramp

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