five times margaret alvarez went off her medication

r | disturbing content involving pregnancy


She gained five pounds in the first two weeks.

(That wasn't the reason. Of course, that wasn't the reason.)

She fell asleep in the middle of her favorite show, woke up at 3 AM not knowing who murdered the fake victim on TV.

(Of course, that wasn't the reason either.)

The pills made such a pretty sound against the porcelain when they swirled down the drain.



They met in the waiting room, and she almost punched him in the face because he wouldn't stop drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. He liked her hair, although he thought her teeth needed work. He was greasy and loud and when she fucked him behind the Center, he tasted like cigarettes and cheap beer.

"Don't you miss it?" he whispered to her, in his bedroom, in her ear, hard and thick inside her.

"Miss what?"

"Flying," he said, and nothing else until he had emptied into her. It's not as if she really needed further elaboration.

He told her she was a better fuck when she was manic.

He wasn't good enough to get her to leave her husband.



"I'll do it," she muttered. Not that she could really do anything at the moment; he had his arms tight around her, preventing her from wielding her weapon.

"C'mon, honey," her husband said, his voice cracking. "Just two more months."

"I should have never let you talk me into this again, you asshole." She spit on the floor. "I had to send away my fucking cat and there's all this fucking noise and this is all your fucking fault, you fucking asshole. I fucking hate it!"

"You don't." He shifted his arm and grabbed her wrist, squeezing her hand until it hurt too much, and she had to drop her knife.

"I want it to fucking die so I can go back on my fucking pills!" she screamed. She tried to break away, tried to slam her too-big stomach against the wall, the bedpost, anything that would kill the child growing inside, but he wouldn't let go.

"You can't mean it," he sniffled in her ear. "You don't mean it."

"Fuck you," she said, softly, defeated. She was doomed.



She went through the pictures again, scratching at the scab on her leg until she felt the blood seeping through her pants.

"How long has it been?"

She flinched at the sudden sound. "We've got about six hours until the bastard kills again."

"No. How long has it been since you took your pills?"

"I ... what are you talking about, Virge?"

He sat down across from her and she folded her hands on the table in an attempt to look casual. When he glanced down at them, she suddenly became aware of the blood under her nails.

"Two days," she admitted. "But I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to get my refills, and then - "

"What do you see?"


He reached over and picked up a picture of the most recent victim. "What do you see, Margaret?"



Nothing makes noise but she hears the rip-rip-rip, like paper, and she knows that it's begun, except she hasn't started, so she looks around for her accomplice, but he's not here -

- never was here -

- because she made him up and the rip-rip-ripping continues, so she must go on, because it's too late to stop now, but now he'll find her, now she can do it all she has to do is rip-rip-rip and wait-wait-wait for -

- sounds -

because nothing makes noise and there's still no sound which means her eardrums are ruptured, but this makes no sense because step 15 of the project hasn't started yet and now the rip-rip-ripping is really starting to annoy her, so she has to hurry up, except time is moving too damn fucking slow and -

- just go.


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