Her hands trembled as she waited. The thin strap of her sleeveless top dropped off one shoulder – she didn’t dare move to pull it back up to its rightful place. One faint pink line had made an appearance in the tiny white window in her grasp, and her heart hammered against her ribcage as she willed for a second one not to appear.
Please, please, please. Please.
Her heart’s prayer was both to its Creator and the pink strip that would determine whether a clot had formed in her womb or not. And as the front door slammed, shaking the thin walls of the flat, the pregnancy test fell from her hands, the tiny glass shattering on impact with the tiled bathroom floor.
“God, please,” she whispered, drawing herself into a knotted ball against the bathroom door. Its handle rattled from the other side.
“Please,” a lone tear cried a song of sorrow for her too.
© The Londoner, June 2011
Male feedback has been critical of this piece (thank you for being honest, guys). Is it the subject matter, or the fact that it is so short?