The Test (Part One)

You can get them in ASDA for as little as £1.49 and you get three. That’s less than 50p each. All you have to do is undergo the glare of the woman behind the counter. They should really have those things on shelves, even if they have to be the ones you can’t reach. You spent fifteen long, agitated minutes scrutinising the shelves. You found the KY Jelly, and then the condoms… how you wish you’d given them a little more thought before. You can see them now, lying in your draw—that one with all the dirty little secrets—

“You should be wearing a condom.” You sighed, fighting the scream that runs up your throat, the urge to moan in ecstasy.
And you can hear him too, in that deep, husky voice that makes your spine tingle—
“Do you want me to?”
And your answer.
“No.”
“It feels too good.”
Regret drowns your chest as you play it back in your mind. It feels too good. And that’s why you’re here now. Dreading the outcome you’re here to recieve.

You stand with your back against the aisle opposite the pharmacist’s counter. A blonde woman—mid-forties, you guess—is staring out at the aisle. She meets your eyes. The gravity of your mistake pulls your own eyes down and you watch your grubby, unknotting, green Converse All Stars tread heavily towards the counter.
“Anything I can help you with, luv?” the pharmacist asks you pleasantly, smiling broadly.
“Err, yes, actually. Umm I…” the words drop out of your mouth awkwardly, stumbling off your dry tongue. “I…I need a pregnancy test, please.” Your eyes meet hers; the corners of her smile plummet into a disgusted sneer. The kind blue eyes look a little colder to you, but maybe you’re just associating your own disappointment with her perhaps meaningless expression.

She starts to consult the prices and various benefits of different types of tests but you’re not listening. You were right. All you can hear is a reluctant tone. Your heart fills with revulsion and disapproval, spreading the poison further; you’re worth nothing, just another teenage pregnancy and a disappointment to society.
“So which would you prefer?” she asks, breaking into your self pity with a raised eyebrow and a disgruntled look, confirming your thoughts of self-worth.
“I’ll have the cheapest please,” you say quietly. She nods, just as expected; you’re a child who can hardly afford a decent test, let alone a baby. She packs it up quickly, hiding your guilt as much as her shame and you transfer the right amount of change eager to get home and find out your fate.