CHLOE

Two Years Earlier

The worst bit wasn't the second blue line appearing on the pregnancy test. It wasn't the fear of the now uncertain future. It wasn't the permanent queasiness in the pit of my stomach from the moment I woke up in the morning to the moment I fell asleep at night, or my sudden, new aversion to drinking any kind of liquid from the rim of a cup and instead needing a straw. It wasn't the revulsion at the idea of having part of him growing inside me, or the realisation that I would now be tied to him for the rest of my life, through our child. The worst bit wasn't working up the courage to make my way round to his flat one evening, a couple of days after the positive test result, to give him the news that I was pregnant with his baby, or waiting outside in the dirty, fluorescent-lit hallway while he came to the door, the stench of stale urine hanging in the air. 

The worst bit wasn't his obvious impatience at being called away from whatever he had been doing inside the flat (probably smoking something, judging by the smell of his clothes). It wasn't finding the words to explain my situation, or the look of disdain on his face, or the following look of horror when my news sank in. It wasn't his unsurprising disinterest in me or his future child, his shrug of indifference or his advice to do "whatever, I don't really give a shit."

It wasn't even, as you could be forgiven for thinking, his unexpected appearance in the Flute and Fiddle the following evening, demanding to speak to me in private, exuding an air of intimidation and thinly veiled fury, or his dangerous tone telling me I needed to get rid of the 'problem' because he wasn't about to be trapped into paying for some brat he didn't even want and being stuck with some frigid little weirdo forever. Nor was it his discreet grip on my wrist, tightening as he warned me not to make life difficult for him, and that if I didn't do as I was told he would make sure I wouldn't need an abortion, because there were ways he could take care of that himself and make it look like an unfortunate accident. No, none of those things were the worst part. 

The worst part is right now. It is sitting in a consulting room at the abortion clinic, a small tablet and a plastic cup of water in front of me, my hands shaking and my insides trembling. It is the empty chair beside me, it is the empty flat that awaits me, it is the look of sympathy on the nurse's face as she waits for me to take the pill that will start the process of forcing my body to reject the tiny life latched on to the lining of my womb, it is the overwhelming misery and fear at not wanting this to happen, but having no one to fight with me in my corner and no strength to face the alternative alone. It is the knowledge that the only person that could have helped me through this, the only person I want here right now, is a couple of hundred miles away, six feet below the ground, unable to be at my side when I need her the most.

The cramping and bleeding isn't as physically painful as I was expecting, but the emotional pain is indescribable. I am terrified of passing a recognisable shape, even though the nurse assured me I was so early in the pregnancy that I wouldn't see anything that looked remotely like a baby leaving my body. Even so, each time I visit the toilet, tears streaming down my face, I can't bring myself to look, just in case I catch a glimpse of the tiny life I have just brutally and barbarically ended. 

Although the bleeding lasts no more than a couple of days, I suffer with abdominal cramps for several weeks afterwards. I can't help thinking this is my body's way of punishing me for being so weak, and being too afraid to stand up for my own child. I wholeheartedly believe I deserve this pain, and in some strange way I almost relish it, as though suffering will cleanse me of my guilt. What I am not expecting is to collapse at the end of my shift at the Flute some weeks later and be taken to hospital by ambulance, examined by the nurses and told I have contracted an infection after my abortion that should have been treated immediately. Tests and further examinations follow, and a quietly spoken doctor with tight afro curls pats my hand gently as she tells me I have internal scarring as a result of my undiagnosed infection that means it is highly unlikely I will be able to conceive a child naturally in the future. She tells me the antibiotics will clear the infection, and not to worry because I will be just fine in no time. She offers to put me in touch with a counselling service, and leaves me with some leaflets to read about infertility and aftercare.

I leave the leaflets behind, and I have no intention of going for counselling over something I have inflicted upon myself. I am nothing more than a murderer; I don't deserve a sympathetic ear. I catch the bus home, my week's supply of antibiotics in my bag, and as I walk from the bus stop across the estate to my high rise block I catch sight of a group of lads sitting on the swings in the children's play area, drinking from cans and smoking. I put my head down as I pass them, but one of them calls out to me across the empty void, "Oi Chloe! Fancy a shag? Oh wait, you're frigid aren't you. Never mind, then." 

The group guffaws loudly and the speaker high fives his friends, clearly proud of this remark. Normally I would ignore them and scurry on home, but something makes me lift my head to look at them, immediately searching for his face among the many hooded figures. He isn't there, and I am about to walk on when I pause in my tracks. Before I know what I'm doing, I call out, "Where's Fred?"

More guffaws follow, and one of the group calls out in a singsong voice, "Fred the redhead, where is Fred?"

No one answers my question, and I stand there waiting, feeling more and more uncomfortable with every moment that passes. 

"What you want him for?" one of them asks. "Not for a shag, obviously."

"I need to speak to him privately," I respond, speaking with as much courage and volume as I can, hoping the tremor in my voice is not audible.

They fall about laughing again, before one of them shouts across to me, "He's coming now," as points to the other side of the playground where  he is sauntering casually through the gate with not a care in the world, oblivious to the destruction he has caused to my life.

"Fred!" I call out, and the group cackles wildly again.

"Why you still callin' him Fred?" a tall lad with freckles on his nose chuckles, tightening the strings around his hood so his face appears small and squashed.

"That's his name," I mutter, to be greeted with more inane laughter. I wish they would shut up and stop making me feel so stupid, but as they have made my life hell for the last month or so I don't hold out any hope for a reprieve now.

"Fred ain't his name," the same lad smirks, standing up to his full height and taking a drag of his cigarette. "Is it?" he calls over his shoulder as he approaches the group with his usual swagger.

"What the fuck is this bitch doing here?" he demands as he reaches us. 

"Looking for you," the friend replies, in a mocking tone, "Fred." He emphasies the name, his lips pulled into an asinine grin.

"I just wanted to let you know, the problem has been solved," I announce loudly and clearly. Instantly his face changes, and hegrips my wrist and steers me roughly out of earshot of the others, before releasing me with a push so I stumble and almost fall on my face on the grass.

"Keep your voice down," he hisses. "You got rid of it, then?"

"Yes," I answer, trembling inside as I look into his cold eyes. "And you've made sure it can never happen again, so well done you."

He looks down at me, his lip curled in a snarl, either failing to understand the full meaning behind my comment or choosing to ignore it. "Whatever. Keep your mouth shut unless you want everyone knowing what a shit shag you were. Unless of course, you want me to give you another chance. I'm always willing to do my bit for charity."

"Hell would freeze over before I would go near you again," I spit, my body now shaking with nerves, fury and misery. "Leave me alone."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever. Just don't give me any attitude in the pub, or I'll have a word with Ian and have you fired. Oh, and one more thing," he adds as I start to turn away, eager to get as far from him as possible before I vomit. "Drop the Fred thing, yeah? It's a bit embarrassing. For you, I mean."

"Drop it?" I ask, confused. "What do you mean? I thought that was your name?"

He smirks pitifully at me. "Fred? Really? It's a nickname, you dumb bitch. Fred the red - because of my red hair. In future, call me by my fucking name."

I stare at him wordlessly, and he rolls his eyes impatiently. "Fucking hell, this is hard work. My name is Chris. Not Fred. Got it?"

I nod silently. 

"Good. And don't fucking forget it."

And without waiting for my response, Chris turns his back on me and struts across the empty playground to his waiting friends. I turn and scurry in the opposite direction to my empty flat.

---***---

I cried writing this chapter. If it moved you too, or even if it didn't but you thought it was good, please take a second to vote by tapping the star at the bottom. It makes me very happy indeed :)

Did you guess that Chris was the guy from Chloe's past? Do you think she will tell Harry the truth? How do you think Harry would react if she did?

Next update will be next weekend xx