April Fools

The time was 3:36AM and I am masturbating in the bathroom on the fourth floor of the university’s main library when a clatter comes ringing through the door. Annoyed, I stilled my hand from persisting with its familiar rhythm and waited for the interloper to leave me be. My irritation grew when my veined love muscle sunk back to its lowly state after the sound of a voice—a male voice at that—echoed off the tiled walls.
            “But there is justification. You heard the doctor; the odds of retardation are like…ten times greater amongst the offspring of first cousins. Really Lisa I don’t even know how you’re even thinking of keeping the thing. I thought we talked about this? We made a mistake—a horrible, drunken mistake. To think of this as anything else is sick! Lisa you’re sick! I think I might vomit right now just thinking about it! Please please please I am begging you: do the right thing here. We will move on with our lives, forget it ever happened, shit maybe even be comfortable enough to laugh about it in a decade or two. Lisa, do you hear me? Aren’t you listening to anything I’m saying? Anything the doctor said to you?”
            There was a long pause. If only I could have seen myself positioned as I was in that moment: legs shot out directly ahead of me with pants and boxers at my ankles, the soles of my shoes pushing against the stall door so as to keep the illusion alive for the intruder, apparently a cousin-fucker, the myth that he was the bathroom’s sole proprietor. I wanted to laugh, cry, but mostly disappear completely from the absurd plight all around me. I was beginning to seriously consider the prospect of the air vents near my feet when the silence was broke by the sound of a child’s weeping. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me. You realize” the voice sobbed, “you realize our lives are over. One hundred percent. Over. Not just in all the ways a normal unplanned pregnancy can fuck things up, no that I could maybe live with. Friends, our family for godssake, they all will be gone. What in the world will they think? We’d have to move out of the state—out of the country! Can’t you see, Lisa? Can’t you fucking understand this in that fucking pea-sized brain of yours?” Now, where the voice lacked sniffles and blubs it compensated with volume. “You ruined my life! You fucking killed me you stupid bitch! Please! Just abort the damned thing and save the three of us!” Pause. Long ominous pause followed by a distinguishable crash. In came skidding across the tile, a cell phone. Quickly my eyes darted beneath the graffitied door where legs crowded a pair of aging jeans. Then, a sinister trilogy that still deafens me: a metallic click click boom.

            The blood in my eyes hindered my vision. It was a text message. But I could only see the date: April 1.