Tick Tock

(TW - This story contains sensitive content.)

Whispering, “One, two, three, four,” she dumped the scoops into the coffeemaker. “Fuck it.” She added another scoop and flipped on the switch.

The wave of nausea hit her as the pot started hissing. Grabbing hold of the counter, she closed her eyes. It was there, no doubt about it. No second guessing if it was her imagination or maybe something she ate. 

“Damn it.” She wiped her forehead, which was covered in a clammy film of sweat. 

Daryl’s thick snoring was the only sound in the house as the sun began to paint its streaks across the sky. Before long, Jeremiah would be up and demanding attention, and then little Em would start her bawling. She had a window of time, a small one at that, to make a monumental decision.

The whoosh of the coffeemaker, then the task of getting her mug and pouring the steaming liquid occupied her mind, but only for a moment. Then the realization was back, and the window of time was shorter.

Think, think, think.

She leaned against the counter and gazed out the window, looking at the swing set and the strewn toys abandoned in the yard. Could she take care of another one? Not financially. Not emotionally. And if the baby didn’t look like Daryl, she wouldn’t stand a chance to take care of herself.

Her thoughts ricocheted back to that night. Desperate to hold onto her extra tips, she had decided against the Uber, choosing instead to walk the quickest route home from the restaurant. Rushing quickly through the back roads, she kept her head down. Her jacket zipped up past her chin shielded her from the brutal wind but offered no protection against the ruthless bunch of drunks.

Minutes felt like hours behind the dumpster as they heaved onto her with their stinking breath and bloodshot eyes, cackling in her ear as they took their turns with her. Giving up the fight, she closed her eyes and went to the top of her mountain where the air was clear and the view endless. It was survival.

Cops in her small town strolled the streets with easy banter, protecting each other and their closest buddies. The mousy waitress married to the ill-tempered farmhand was none of their concern. She didn’t waste her time reporting the violent crime and didn’t dare show any signs of suffering to Daryl, for that would have been suicide.

“Whore!” He would bellow, making her face burn and her stomach twist in knots. His rage was triggered in a hot minute by anything real or imagined. Did that man look at her in the parking lot? “Slut!” Why did that customer give her a generous tip, was she giving him extra dessert, perhaps in the backseat of his car? “Bitch!” If he knew what she had endured, the punishment would have been far worse than the actual crime.

Think, think, think. 

She watched a rabbit nibble the long dewy grass in the yard, so free and innocent. Glancing up to the brightening sky, she saw birds fly casually from tree to tree seemingly at random. Perhaps they were feeling whimsical in the early morning sunlight. “Take me with you,” she pleaded silently. “Fly me out of here.”

Her eyes darted to the fourth fence post, then down to the ground just to the left. The dirt was undisturbed. She let out a tiny breath knowing that the rusty tin can she had buried was still there. Her meager savings, her “what if” money, her “rainy day” fund was safe. She had to face the facts. Her rainy day had arrived.

Could she pack her bags and leave them all? Her demanding children filled her heart with guilt at the sight of their dirty hand-me-down clothing that never fit quite right. Their pale, drawn faces after skipping a meal hiding from their father’s drunken rage made her look away in discomfort. The hell with them all, the whole damn lot. She could be on the next train going anywhere, starting over on her own. She had enough for a ticket and a few months of rent. 

“Where’s Mama?” she imagined Jeremiah asking upon awakening. “Where’d she go?” Em would imitate, following along, dragging her filthy blanket along the filthier floor. “She left,” the neighbors would tell them with pity on their faces. No kiss goodbye. No forwarding address. No one knew what happened to Mama. They would grow up labeled the abandoned children, damaged goods, broken beyond repair.

Tick, tock the clock was speeding along, the window was closing. The clinic wouldn’t take her if she waited much longer. Did the tin can hold enough for her to get it done? Would she be able to live with herself afterward was the question she didn’t have the answer to. Laying on the cold table she would climb her mountain up to the blue sky and puffy clouds. She would survive.

Creak. The window was closing. The air became thinner and harder to breath. Nausea was building from the hormones and stress. She put her hand on her belly then quickly let it drop loosely at her side. No. She would not acknowledge it; she would not make it real.

Daryl’s snoring rumbled down the hallway, an urgency quickly rolling on its heels blowing her way as if in a hurricane. She stood paralyzed in the storm. 

Tick, tock of the clock. Creak as the window of opportunity was closing.

Slut! Whore! As if her husband was in the room with her, she recoiled from the attack, bringing a hand to her flushed cheek. 

Would he dare strike her while great with child? If he held off for nine months, he would make up for it upon the birth. When looking into those eyes not recognizing who looked back, he would strike her. Again. And again.

The image of another baby on her hip crying to be loved while her life burned down around her was too much to bear.

“Birds, fly me away. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll sing a cheery tune for you while we soar above the trees.”

Her last sip of coffee, lukewarm and filled with grinds, brought the nausea front and center. She ran out the backdoor and vomited into the bushes. 

Whispering, “One, two, three, four,” she reached the fourth fence post and started to dig.