Ashley’s P.O.V
I groaned and held my head. Fucking hangover, I thought to myself. Looking at my phone, I saw that it was 3:00 p.m and figured that I’d slept enough. I walked to my small bathroom to look for some Aspirin to help this hangover. I looked in the medicine cabinet with little success, and figured that it got lost under the sink somewhere from when I moved in. Once I opened the cabinet underneath the sink, my eyes went wide at the box of unopened tampons. I pulled my phone out of my pocket again, this time to check the date. November 20th, 2013, it read. I gasped. I’m late? I thought to myself. I sat on the floor and leaned my head against the doorframe. If I was pregnant, I just possibly put my baby in danger. I was drinking last night, with…Pierce the Veil. I smiled at the memory, then quickly shook the happiness away with the self-reminder that I could possibly have a baby on the way.

I walked down the road to the drug store, not caring that my hair was a mess or that my eyeliner from last night was smudged all over my face. I walked around and picked up a few things – a soda, chips, AA batteries, and toothpaste – before going to pick up a pregnancy test. I picked up a digital one and made my way to the registers. The teenage boy behind the counter turned a bright pink when he rang up my test, but I didn’t care. I just needed to figure this out.

I walked home as fast as I could, seeing as how my hangover was still in full swing. I was wondering when I was going to vomit. By the time I got home, I was ignoring my splitting headache and practically in a full-speed dash for the bathroom. After taking the test, and waiting the instructed 10 minutes, I looked down at the white stick resting on my bathroom counter.

Pregnant, it read.

Pregnant.

I was pregnant.

I could feel my breath stop short in my throat as choked sobs came out of my body. I clutched my stomach and sobbed, “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry…” Finally, the vomit that I had been waiting for, which I couldn’t tell was caused by my hangover or by morning sickness, came, and I crouched over the toilet hurling up what seemed like a week’s worth of food.

After waiting what seemed like years of sobbing over my pregnancy and vomiting, I stood up, rinsed my mouth out thoroughly, and stepped outside. I needed to go for a walk. Maybe that would help me get things sorted out.

A half hour later, I returned, feeling refreshed by the beauty of my new home, San Diego. When I walked into my house, I smelled alcohol and cigarette smoke, and instantly thought back to my hell-like life in Miami. I looked to my right, and saw that a window in my living room had been smashed out. I looked to my left, and saw a tall figure standing in the darkness with a lit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a skinny, white object in the other. “Jack?” I breathed.

He stalked toward me, and as he walked into the light, I could make out his sleepy hazel eyes, glossed over by his buzz caused by the vodka. His curly, light brown hair was neat, and the only part of him that was intact. This man was savage. “You couldn’t stay away from me forever, baby,” he breathed. I could smell the rancid odor of alcohol and sociopath on his breath, and I winced at the smell.

“Jack, get out.” My voice was stern for once in the presence of my abusive ex-boyfriend.

“Not without my baby.” He let out a maniacal laugh and shot his eyes toward the white object in his hand. “You’re pregnant, Ashley? Let’s be a family,” he smiled at me devilishly and waved the pregnancy test around in the air.

“Never.” I stood my ground.

Suddenly, I heard a crash and saw a million pieces of glass replace what was once a solid bottle of vodka all over my kitchen floor. The smell of alcohol in the air became stronger. Jack grabbed my arm, and I snatched it away quickly, stumbling back. I heard a click, and saw the shiny blade in his hand.

I darted toward the bathroom, but he tripped me, and I slid the rest of the down the hall, hitting my head against the tub. I winced in pain and shot my hand up to my head. I felt liquid, and looking at my hand, saw blood. I hastily got up and shut and locked the door. I snatched my iPhone out of my pocket and dialed Dylan’s number. She was the only ‘friend’ I had in San Diego. She answered sounding concerned, but before I could ask her for help, I heard a bang. My eyes darted upwards toward the door, and I saw Jack’s tall figure looming above me, the blade in his hand seemingly becoming a part of him. He screamed profanities at me before piercing the knife through my side, then I screamed. And then there was nothing.

I woke up with a start, feeling tears come to my eyes with my dream acting as a reminder of what I had encountered the day before. I looked down at my body, I was wearing an ugly pale blue gown and was tucked under a few white blankets. There were seemingly I.V.’s in every part of my arms, and I instantly felt sick to my stomach.

A short, round woman came striding into my room wearing a white lab coat. I’m in the hospital, I’m safe, I reassured myself. “Hello, Ashlana. My name is Dr. Paige. You’re in the hospital.” Her raspy voice shook me out of my thoughts, and I nodded in order to tell her that I was aware and understanding. She walked over to me, shined a light in my eyes, and tickled my toes. I let out an uncomfortable laugh, and she smiled. “I’m just checking to make sure all your senses are intact, okay?” I nodded once again.

She turned to walk away. “Wait,” I said, sounding helpless. She turned in her tracks and smiled a pitiful smile at me with an eyebrow raised. My voice had come out small and groggy, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Um, where’s my baby?”

Dr. Paige’s face fell, and I could’ve sworn I saw a sheet of water form on her blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Ashlana.”

I could feel my chest collapse, and my entire world crumble. I’d only had a few hours with that baby. And I loved it so dearly. It didn’t have a name, or a face, or a gender, but it was mine. And I needed it. I threw the bed sheet off me and looked down at my stomach. There were two series of stitches; one in a vertical direction on my side, and one in a horizontal direction below my belly button. It’s gone, Ashley, I told myself. I tossed my head back into my pillow, and let myself sob for what was probably hours. Through the whole time, I was wondering why Jack hadn’t killed me. This was all my fault. His abuse, the conception of my baby, the death of my baby. It was all. My. Fault.

I was better off dead.