Short Story: Time's last one

This short story was an emotional piece for me to write. It is not my best work, but it is a certainly raw piece for me.

For the longest of times, I have been deeply affected by the abortion crisis that burdens our world more than we wish to realise. Perhaps the scariest thing is that we are justifying the murder of the unborn for the freedom and security of those only a few years older. We are allowing our rights to diminish the rights of the young. I am getting teary writing this.

What is so inherently frustrating is that in any other situation, the consequence must be met. If you crashed your car, you have to pay for it. If you stole something, you might do time in jail. But not all consequences are bad. Actually some bad decisions can result in good and bad consequences. Not studying enough for a test may mean that you are getting more time with family, and might not get a great grade on the test. Using a set of dishware when your family comes over may be good because your grandma got it for you, but your husband may have wanted you to use the new set he got you for Christmas.

I think the problem is that we are seeing pregnancy as a car crash, when it might only be studying less on a test. In other words, it has bad and good consequences, rather than just bad.

And for the mothers out there who are suffering emotional trauma due to your pregnancy, I am extremely empathetic. Just as much as the rights of the unborn, I wish to see the rights of women met in these circumstances. However, this, I think, is not met in the termination of pregnancy, but the right to have support and love in the midst of these situations.

And for women who have become mothers because of rape, my heart goes out to you most. I cannot fully understand. But I beg you to choose life over choice. And most importantly, choose the Father of Heaven who calls from the cross to follow him. See the father who opens his arms following his resurrection providing you with life rather than death. I plead for you to die to yourself and choose life for the child, just as Jesus chose to die and rise again for our lives.

And before this becomes more of a rant rather than an actual introduction to my story, I want you to know something: this is my passion. This is an issue that get's my heart beating. There is no particular circumstance in my life that has caused me to feel so strongly, but my own heart.

In year ten, I made a fifteen minute presentation on abortion which was only meant to go five minutes. I made a video in Year 8. I have written poems, short stories, articles and the like on this issue which totally and utterly breaks my heart. I have listened to stories, seen movies, gone to rallies to show my despair over abortion.

In this piece, I have put much creative energy - through dramatic monologue, poetry and prose - to try and capture how deeply this issue affects me. It is not my best piece. But I hope you will navigate the ragged edges and more vividly see my take on such a raw issue.

Time's Last One

By Aynsley Vivian

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands.

"One last time," she whispered to herself.

One. Last. Time.

The doctors had told her that her final pregnancy was not going to be easy. She did not dread pregnancy as much as the finality of it all. She looked up in the mirror and saw what she expected - the lines under her eyes; the faded and cracked lips, dry from vommitting; the pale, pimply face no longer bearing a mother's glow. She prayed that her receding radiance would not dictate the youthfulness of her baby.

As a child, she believed that baby's born to older couples would look aged, like their parents. Being older herself, she recognised the foolishness of her childhood thinking. But statistics did demonstrate one thing: that in her old age, the physical and mental health of the baby was more at risk.

The doctors made her fully aware of the risks - and offered her sure solutions. Solutions that encouraged her to embrace the finality much earlier in her pregnancy.

*****

On her husband's discouraged face, she prayed it was not so. Now her life would change forever, every second the baby would grow. Every minute she paused to feel her rounding stomach, to cope with the known feeling.

Like every time before, she would go on with ordinary life - intentional ignorance of her responsibility. As a baby grew, she would make a cup of tea. She would watch TV. Try some yoga, or walking by the sea.

Truly, however, her time would come. In her eyes, she could not fully see the woman she'd become. Mind and body disconnected from their counterpart. Eventually, she would accept life's start.

One. Last. Time.

******

One night eventually learns another someone's title, time invites my entrance.

One. Last. Time.

******

One last time. Time's last one. You think I don't know?

Trace each line on the face. Count each pimple. Number the tears. Count the volumes of vomit. I know I am the end, for you. But this is not the end for me.

Time is relative, subjective to its own victim. "Time's" last one? Your last one! You are not a murderer. Time is not your enemy. Age is a factor not an offender. Experience is beauty and I am the result. For one last time.

******

But as she looked in the mirror, in the tired eyes, the pale skin, the graying hair - she did not see a killer. She saw a fighter - a defender.

For one last time she would leave the clinic with joy in the chapped-lipped smile. She would walk straight, head up, though weakened by faltering vision and uneasy stomach.

One. Last. Time.