Page 33 of The Death of Kisses

“We can’t,” my voice small and fragile against the weight of our reality.

“How old are you?” he pressed, walking slowly around me, studying me.

“Seventeen,” I whispered, feeling my vulnerability laid bare.

“Dr. Avery—” Mike started, but was cut off.

“I’ll do it once,” the doctor interrupted coldly, as if making a distant, routine decision. “If it happens again, you’re on your own.”

My breath caught—my heart pounding painfully—what was he saying? What did he mean if it happens again?

“You need an abortion, and I am capable of performing them,” he stated flatly, grabbing gloves with deliberate purpose.

Why? The question burst inside me—why? What cruel, twisted boredom made someone like him choose this? There was no compassion in his face—only detachment, a stark reality of this life-changing moment reduced to a procedural checklist.

He asked for our blood types, indifferent to the gravity hanging in the air. A positive and O-negative. He dismissed us with clipped commands, wanting to get this over with—they were just words: problem, procedure, as if it was a simple stain or cavity, not the life within me.

I slipped outside into a small room to change into the gown he handed me, as I fought back tears. Returning, I saw Mike filling a blood bag with quiet determination, his face a mask of support—fragile but steady.

“Why do you need his blood?” I asked quietly, curiosity blending with dread.

“My supply’s low from recent events,” he answered curtly, dismissing the question with a flick of his hand.

“What events?” I pressed, but his eyes grew cold, impatient.

“You ask too many questions. Either follow me or don’t,” he snapped, striding out, leaving us in a whirlwind of uncertainty. Mike’s weak smile tried to offer comfort, but it couldn’t mask the fear gripping my chest.

Dr. Avery moved swiftly, his steps urgent and commanding, leaving me breathless trying to keep pace despite my long legs fighting against the rush. Each turn felt impossible to remember, my heart pounding louder with every second. We finally burst into a smaller, sterile room—the air thick with tension—and there she was, the woman in the mask and gown, her presence both clinical and cold. A tray of ominous tools sat nearby, silent witnesses to what was about to happen.

“Get on the table and open your legs,” Dr. Avery commanded, his voice sharp yet heavy with unspoken gravity. My body instinctively obeyed, climbing onto the cold table as my legs found their place in the stirrups. Casey, the nurse, reached for my arm, her hands visibly shaking—her fear mirrored mine—as she drew nearer with the IV needle.

“Casey,” Dr. Avery’s voice cut through the room like a warning shot, his tone firm and unyielding. Casey’s hesitation was tangible; she dropped the needle onto the tray and hurried out, leaving a shroud of silence and unanswered questions. I wanted to cry out, to understand, to ask why she acted that way, but fear and silence clenched my throat tighter than ever. As Dr. Avery pressed the cold, unforgiving needle into my arm and fine-tuned the machine, I felt my resolve wavering.

And then, as I struggled to ask how long this would last, my eyes fluttered shut—an involuntary surrender to the overwhelming surge of emotion, uncertainty, and dread that gripped me from within.

“Come on, Charlotte. We have to go now, please.” Mike’s voice shattered through the silence, urgently pulling me from the soft cocoon of sleep. Confusion clouded my mind, but then a sharp, searing pain gripped my lower abdomen, forcing me to double over in agony. Thank God for the wheelchair that caught me, holding me steady in the chaos.

“Thank you, Dr. Avery,” he snapped, so tense and frantic as he helped me rise. His voice was edged with frustration and worry—an unbearable weight weighing down on him.

“Don’t come back,” he commanded coldly, his outstretched hand holding out that small bottle of pills, offering me a fleeting hope amidst the storm. I took it, my head spinning, legs wobbling beneath me, fighting against the dizzying darkness threatening to consume me. Mike held me tightly, his grip firm and protective as we hurried around the building toward the car, every step agonizing.

“Fucking prick,” he muttered bitterly after strapping me in, a fury in his voice that echoed his helplessness and anger.

It hurt to even speak, but I forced the words out: “It’s not so bad,” I lied, though nausea clawed at my insides, threatening to overwhelm me.

He looked at me sharply, concern etched in his eyes. “Are you sure you want to go to Lee’s graduation?” he asked, voice strained with worry as he pulled onto the street.

“Yeah,” I whispered, every fiber of my being knowing I was risking everything. “If I don’t go, I’ll be in huge trouble.” A heavy sigh escaped me—fear, exhaustion, fighting to stay strong.

Mike’s voice softened just slightly. “Alright, then. Take two of those pills, close your eyes, and rest. We’ve got a long drive ahead, and I need you to hold on.”

Mike gently nudged me awake as we pulled into the high school’s parking lot. “Charlotte, we’re here,” he nudged me.

A faint moan escaped my lips as I pulled my shirt over my head, the gown clinging to my skin from sleep, heavy and uncomfortable. My stomach knotted with nerves and exhaustion, yet I forced myself to move, to brace myself for what was ahead.

He reached out and carefully smoothed the back of my shirt down while I yanked the gown off, my movements tense. I slid into my leggings, feeling a sharp sting of discomfort that mirrored my inner turmoil.

“You know you don’t have to go,” Mike said softly, glancing at the door as a flood of cars rolled in—each one another reminder of the day’s weight. I checked my phone, my heart pounding, and saw a message from Lilly.