the day in the purple-gray room, may 20th 2009.

i sat in the purple-gray waiting room filling out form after form. last name, first name, middle initial, street address, city, state, zip code, phone number, birth date, social security number - all of it seemed pretty standard. but about six pages in, halfway down the orange paper, the redundancy of filling out forms subsided and the reality of my current situation began to hit me like a thousand screeching bullets.

"is this your first pregnancy?"
"is this your first abortion?"
"have you taken time to consider all of your options?"
"what is your relationship with the father of the baby?"

all of these questions staring back at me, all at once and suddenly, i became short of breath. the warm beige tones the room was decorated in seemed so sarcastic to me; a fake illusion of serenity and peace of mind while you're sitting in a waiting room, amongst a long line of women, who've made the same mistake, ignored the advice to use protection and ended up with child. all of were waiting for the same thing - the operation to remove us of our guilt and clean our slates. one lone woman in her designer business suit, briefcase by her side, blackberry in hand. one scared teenager in a band t-shirt and sweatpants, clinging to the solace of her ipod. and one couple, about college-aged, looking somewhat paralyzed from the previous night's party and then there's me and steve. all of us with different backgrounds, different reasons, different motives but one common purpose on this day, in this waiting room, they've gathered us all together, as if to shake a fist and point a finger, scream at us for our lifestyle choices, our behaviors. I hear their screams ringing in my ears as I check off the boxes one by one.

"yes, this is my first pregnancy." one voice screams out, "SLUT!"
"yes, this is my first abortion." another one shrills, "IRRESPONSIBLE!"
"yes, all other options were exasperated." one more, "HARLET!"
"the father and i were dating, now we're not." "SKANK!"
"yes, i still want to go through with the procedure."
and the loudest accusation of all, "MURDERER!"

i felt it being played over and over again into my ear, i looked around the room for some comfort, a nod of approval, something, anything from my fellow murderers. but they were all wrapped up in the same moment as me. all of us wondering, searching, hoping we were making the right choice. we were all lost little children facing the task of caring for another child and feeling inadequate. i kept scanning the room for something to jolt me out of this feeling and then another couple appeared in my line of vision. they'd just returned from the ultrasound room, her fingers clutching a dark, blotchy square of paper. she sat down in one the purple-gray chairs and began sobbing. i wanted to run over to her, tell her she wasn't alone, that i felt it too. but the guy she was with beat me to it. he lovingly put his arms around her, whispered a few words into her ear and as she looked up at him, she saw his endearing smile and she knew instantly, she wasn't alone. she didn't need me to reach out to her in our time of need, she had him. they pulled in for another long embrace and her tears subsided. my eyes rolled back down to my forms and i suddenly felt of a rush of loneliness stir inside me. my gaze slowly moved to the chair beside me. in it, a shaggy brown mohawk, calm brown eyes and a boyfish figure. i suddenly remembered i too had someone with me - someone to comfort me, someone to remind me that i had hope and as i gazed at his face, i saw him, texting someone about a party later, completely ignoring me. i had forgotten for just a split-second that we weren't together anymore, that he had ended things three weeks previous, and that i had a broken heart as well as his baby in my body. it was in that instant i realized i would be completely alone in this pregnancy, just like i was in our entire relationship. there would be no loving embraces, no endearing kisses nor any encouraging words shared between us. there were no more doubts and no more second guesses about what i was doing. steve wasn't there to comfort me, he was just there to make sure i went through with it and pretend like he was the good, comforting guy that he wasn't -- and with one final form: name, address, birth date, phone number and signature, i decided i wanted to move on from the pain that was the short story of steve and i.