small bump . open

[k!ah]

d e l i l a h .

Delilah was a mess.

She sat on the bathroom floor, face pressed up against the toilet seat. Her stomach cramped, and her throat burned. She had been sitting on the bathroom floor for the last hour, cradling her stomach, the stench of her vomit filling the room, filling her nostrils. She was sure that it was mangled in her hair, and that a trail ran down her shirt, ingraining the smell into the worn fabric. Shifting on the floor she managed to push herself onto her feet, cradling her stomach that was growing by the day.

Stripping off her shirt, then her pants and underwear she jumps into the shower, enjoying the feeling of hot water against her skin and aching muscles. Ever since the pump had popped the pain in her back had been persistent and relentless. Just walking down the street to the market sent her lower back on fire, her body not used to the new weight, the new life that was growing within her. Running her hands over her stomach she wonders if her body will ever become accustomed to the baby that was growing within her, or if the whole pregnancy would have her body fighting her.

Sighing she cuts off the water, stepping out of the shower and wrapping herself with a worn-out towel that barely closed around her, almost exposing her. Luckily the whole house was fast asleep, worn out from a day of working the farm that was their livelihood, they did not wake to her movements, her retching as she had expelled her dinner into the toilet bowl. She was grateful for that though because she couldn't stand seeing the disappointment in her mother's eyes each time she looked at her.

"You are throwing your life away, Delilah," she would say, shaking her head before turning away, leaving Delilah feeling empty and lost and terrified about what the future held for her. What if her mother ended up kicking her out? Throwing Delilah and her newborn to the curb to survive on their own. She knew that her mother loved her, but was that love enough?

In her room, she slips on her track pants and a loose flowing shirt before stuffing tired feet into boots. Tightening them she pulls herself from her bed, pulling on a jacket as she quietly moves through the slumbering house, slipping out the backdoor. The night air was fresh, chilly against her skin, so she shrugs her jacket on tighter, Mushroom, one of their farm collied running up to greet her with exciting licks to her hand and frantic tail wagging.

"Hey there, Mushroom, you want to go for a walk?" An excited bark is followed by her torpedoing towards the gate, looking back at her panting with anticipation. "Okay okay, wait up Mushroom! This young mamma can't move like she used to." Mushroom runs back to her side, patiently walking beside her as she reaches the gate, swinging it open just enough for the both of them to fit through.

They walk for a while until they come across a bench where Delilah sighs in relief, collapsing onto the bench. Instantly Mushroom jumps up to sit beside her, placing her head onto her lap. Delilah runs her hand over the dog's head absently, as she stares up into the night sky. "I'm so tired, Mushroom," she pauses, taking a deep, shaking breath. "I'm so scared," she finished, her free hand cradling her stomach.

[kap]

Denny Denver

My roommates were really starting to get annoyed with me. It started with one of them telling me that I needed to stop "turning every little unexplained thing into a conspiracy theory", but if you ask me, that's the best way to approach explaining things that you don't have an answer to: come up with your own answer. If I explain it in some crazy way when there's no other answer given to me, it might as well be a real answer. It's good enough for me, and it eases my mind better than having a big unknown hanging in front of my face.

After Kane wouldn't shut up about my conspiracy theories annoying him, Ren wouldn't stop pestering me about the dishes that I keep on leaving in the sink "all the time". So, I cleaned up my mess, reluctantly, and quietly made my way out of the apartment. I was tired of being pestered about the things I did that bothered them. I was seriously considering moving out sometime in the relatively near future. Honestly, it would be so much more peaceful if I had my own place. Then again, if I did that, I'd have to do all of the cleaning around the entire place, and that's just a hassle if you ask me.

When I slipped my way out the front door, I went down the stairs to the main level of the building (I lived on the second floor) and went outside. The weather was really nice today, which made the fact that I didn't even think to grab a sweatshirt before I left an okay decision. I'd been rather hasty, so had it been a colder day, I'd be regretting it already.

I started to walk down the street, and I walked for quite a while. I was people-watching as I went, seeing those that walked by and sometimes listening in on their conversations without participating. (It would be rude of me to interrupt when the conversation has nothing to do with me, after all. Surely there's no harm in listening, though.)

One man said something to the woman he was walking with, and I realized it was something I probably shouldn't have overheard. It was a bit personal, and was probably meant to be just between the two of them. That's not my fault, though. If you're having a conversation in public, you should expect that other people are going to hear what you're talking about, too, even if you're talking to yourself.

I eventually ended up passing by a bench where someone was sitting with their dog on their lap, talking to it. Apparently, the dog's name was Mushroom, which I thought was pretty cute.

The young woman commented to the dog that she was tired and scared, which made me stop. I may have been one who normally tried not to butt into the conversations of the strangers I listened to on the streets, but if it was something that caused me to feel a sense of concern, I would do what I felt that I had to do.

I looked at the young woman sitting on the bench, and I forced myself to have a filter, because my mind was telling me that I should ask all sorts of questions.

"Are you okay?" I asked. I was actually concerned. I wasn't just saying this because my verbal filter told me it was best not to say the other thoughts I had running through my mind.

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