14. After

As autumn gives way to winter, the air grows colder, the sky bleeker and the trees naked with shame. It’s early December. Christmas is around the corner, followed by half term exams and holiday. Camille buries herself in books, but retains nothing. She writes down formulas and equations over and over again, but can’t remember a single one. She wants to beat her head into a wall, but it seems her studies are already doing that for her.

In a few days time, Matthew will return home. He’d been in the hospital a good week after the accident, but after he’d been released, he asked that he might go stay with Uncle Moritz in Munich. He’s yet to speak to Camille after their fight.

The morning Matthew was due to return, Camille woke up as her entire body was exacting revenge on her. She could feel her stomach churn, and nausea was making its way up her throat. She turned onto her side and tried to focus on taking deep breaths, but before she knew it, she was sprinting into the bathroom down the hall.

Her head spun as she picked it back up from the porcelain bowl of the toilet. She tried to steady herself, but found herself vomiting into the toilet again.

Her entire body shook with cold shivers. She sat on the cold tile floor with her back against the wall. Everything felt heavier. Her lips were chapped, her mouth dry, and her eyes were heavy with sleep. She’s tempted just to curl up on the bathroom floor, but she pulls herself up and forces herself back to her room.

She wipes her nose on her sleeve and falls back into bed. This was the third morning in a row that she’d been sick as soon as she’d woken up. She’d been having a hard time sleeping lately. Her mind found it hard to rest with her thoughts constantly running between all the fighting with Matthew and the night that Ian Kohler had attacked her. She hated how quiet her room got at night when she’d been trying to fall asleep. Silence gave her time to think, and she often caught herself falling into a dark web of thoughts. She’d close her eyes and see the dark shadows under Matthew’s eyes, she’d picture him sinking, downing beneath the water, his skin turning pale as his very soul left his body. A few nights ago, she’d dreamt she’d found him in the tub, slit wrists, blood stained onto her hands, their white porcelain tiled bathroom, covered crimson. She’d wake up in a cold sweat, sometimes crying, her face wet with tears and snot. If it wasn’t Matthew, then it was Ian. She had distinct memories of the way he’d touched her, the way he’d pinned her down and covered her mouth, gently brushing away the tears that ran down her cheeks.

A few mornings ago, before all the vomiting had started, Camille had gone for a run. She needed to shake her mind clear of her thoughts, and so very much needed to get out of the house. Another minute around her father and she might kill him-she’d nearly lost it with him when she’d found out about the military academy he’d forced Matthew into for the following year. Another minute in that house, and she too may have drowned herself in a lake.

She’d been running down a familiar trail, her favorite trail. Evergreens stretched on for miles on end, just barely scraping the sky. The path twisted round and around along the forest and through the fields. In the early morning, the sun would rise, illuminating the trees in a golden halo. The sun was warm on her face, the breeze was gentle and danced through her curls. This trail, was one of the only places where she could truly find peace in the world.

As she came down the slope of the trial, her feet carrying her with the pull of gravity, her strides growing longer and faster, she saw something in the distance that brought her to an abrupt halt that nearly knocked her over. No more than fifty feet away, she saw a young man walking a dog. At least that’s what it would’ve looked like to an ordinary person. In the distance Camille saw something that would make her hate this place, just like how she hated the quarry. As he approached closer to her, Camille’s mind screamed at her to run, but her feet were glued to the ground. She felt like she was sinking in a ditch of quicksand. Somehow, her thoughts had reached her muscles, and just as her eyes met his, she took off sprinting through the forest. She dared not to look back.

As Camille lie there in bed, doting upon the memory, another thought reached her mind that made her quite a bit sicker. She hadn’t gotten her period last month, at least not since the night of Georgina’s party. She couldn’t remember if Ian had used something, she’d tried her best to block out every memory of the attack. Her parents were far too conservative to have put her on birth control and the thought of getting the morning after pill hadn’t crossed her mind. All the nausea, vomiting fatigue, it all made sense. How long had it been? It had been about four weeks since the party, would there be any way to tell if she was pregnant? Even if she was pregnant, what was she going to do? There was no way she could tell her parents, or they might throw her out of the house too and write her off as a whore. As far as she knew, abortions were illegal in Germany, unless they put the mother’s life in danger, or if there was proof that the woman was sexually abused.

No. She could never. Who would believe her? They’d blame her for being drunk and accepting a ride from him. They’d say her dress was too short, that because she’d had feelings for him in the past, she deserved what had happened. That she was asking for it.

Tear brimmed her eyes. More than anything, she wanted Matthew back. He would know what to do. He always did. But now he hated her. They weren’t even speaking, let alone seen each other for weeks. Would he be angry? Call her a whore for going home with one of his friends? Would he tell her that because she was drunk and wearing a short dress, she deserved what had happened?

She stopped herself. She’d been jumping the gun, without even knowing for certain that she was pregnant. So as she shuts off her mind, she quickly pulls on some clothes and her jacket from the hall. She slams the front door behind her and walks along the snow dusted footpath. At the end of their estate, she catches a bus headed into town.

It was only a fifteen minute ride to the other side of town, but each minute that passed felt like an hour. At the third stop, a pregnant woman got on with a toddler in her arms. Seeing that there were no open seats, she stood in a corner, holding onto a pole. Camille abruptly got up and offered her seat switching places with her. The young woman mouthed a thank you to her, relief spread across her face and sat the child in her lap.

Camille looked down at her shoes through blurry, tearfilled eyes. She tries not to think about the baby inside her own body, but her eyes begin welling up again and tears begin staining her cheeks. She hides her face in the crook of her arm, as to not evoke attention from the people around her. Suddenly the child who’d been sleeping in the woman’s lap awoke and began crying loudly. She watched as the woman attempted to calm him and soothe his cries, but she’d only made it worse.

For some odd reason, an overwhelming wave of sadness hit her too, and she finds herself sobbing aloud, along with the child who’d been throwing a fit and screaming in his mother’s arms. The passengers around her looked at her strangely, taken aback by her abrupt outburst. As the bus came to a halt at the next stop, she quickly got off, barreling through the doors.

She walked along to the pharmacy, wiping at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. In the street, cars drive past, taxis honk, and buses sigh to a stop. Cyclists zip past and pedestrians pass by without stopping to apologize for bumping into or stepping on her.

Camille takes a deep breath and walks into the pharmacy. The cashier was an older looking woman, who wore a look of sympathy in her eyes. She approached the counter and asked for the cheapest pregnancy test on the shelf.

“How old are you, love?” she asked softly.

Camille made no eye contact with her and slapped a ten onto the counter. She grabbed the test and walked out, clenching her jaw.

As soon as she’d walked in through the door, she tore off her coat and shoes and ran into the bathroom. With one hand, she ripped open the box, while the other pulled down her sweatpants. She sat down on the toilet, the stick shaking in her hands as she held it under her. She placed the stick face down on the edge of the tub and flushed the toilet. She washed her hands and walked out of the bathroom. The box had told her to wait at least three minutes, so she began pacing back and forth between the kitchen. She glanced at the clock, only to see that a minute had passed.

She wanted to scream.

Just then the doorbell rang. Camille flinched. She walked across the living room, nearly slipping on her parka she’d discarded onto the floor earlier and swung open the door to find a postman.

“Hi, I’ ve got a parcel for Daniel Hosenfeld. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s him-me-yes.” Camille stutters. “Can I see an ID?” He asks politely.

She groans under her breath and walks across the room, tearing out her license from her wallet. The man studies it carefully, as if he was suspicious she was trying to steal her brother’s package.

“So you’re related then?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Camille exclaims. “I’m his sister, just give me the fucking package and let me sign for it already!”

He looks disgusted with her harsh language and reluctantly passes her a clipboard and pen. Under his breath, she hears him call her a bitch.She quickly scribbles her signature and takes the package from him, nearly slamming the door in his face.

She tosses the package onto the table and hurries back to the bathroom. The door slams behind her and she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her curls were frizzing and her face was pale. She takes in a deep breath and sits down at the edge of the tub. She turns over the pregnancy test and stares at the small plus sign until it’s been burned into her mind. She blinks away her tears and tosses it into the trash bin.

She looks at herself in the mirror. “Idiot.” she mutters to herself.