Free Bombshells by T. Elliott Brown

bedroom. Stan is still asleep in the car, and he can stay there all night for all I care.
    Bastard.
    Aren’t we a pair? The Bitch and the Bastard.
    Mama, you’re probably rolling over in your grave. I never meant to be this way. But you know what happened. You know how it all changed. I’m just glad that you see me through the gauze of heaven instead of the bright light in the bathroom. I hope you know that on the inside, I’m still your girl, no matter what the outside is like.
    I stub out the cigarette and arrange my pillow so the hair rollers aren’t so prickly.
    Later, I wake with horrible cramps and a hot rush between my legs. I stagger to bathroom and turn on the light. My nightgown is stained red and my legs are caked with drying blood. The cramps are worse this time than ever. Maybe because I’m more than a week late. I was beginning to wonder. But no. Norah’s having the baby. Not me.
    Thank God. Not me. Right?
    I clean myself up and put my gown in the sink full of cold water to soak, dig out the belt and the pads from the little linen closet. Leaving on the bathroom light to find another gown, I see that Stan has made his way to bed. He even woke up enough to take off his clothes. He’s lying naked on top of the sheet and snoring like a freight train. I’m surprised his snores didn’t wake me before the cramps.
    The cramps hit with another wave and I head back to the bathroom to take a couple of aspirin and a Seconal.
    I lie down, careful to arrange myself just so, making sure my hair curlers aren’t shifted, making sure my legs are together. Careful not wake up Stan.
    No child, thank God. No Stan’s baby. No my baby.
    Stan rolls over and nuzzles my neck, his breath hot and sour. “Doll, you okay?”
    My face is wet and I swipe my hand over it before pushing him away. “Yeah.”
    “I’m sorry, doll.”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    He cups my breast and throws his leg over my belly.
    “Stan, no. I started my period. Go to sleep.”
    “Oh.” He props up on his elbow to see my face in the dim room. His hot breath makes my belly knot up. “It was late, right?”
    I nod.
    He kisses me on the lips and whispers in my ear. “Thank God, huh? We don’t want any brats.”
    No. We don’t want any brats. Certainly not your brat, Stan.
    But if Michael were here, I’d be crying for a different reason. I wanted Michael’s baby so terribly. I still do. I wish I had a little of him to hug and kiss, to make cookies for, to have dinner with.
    Stan rolls on top of me, his erection hard, pressing against my belly. Pushing himself up on his arms, he says, “I’d be happy to get you off. Help those cramps.” He starts peeling away the protective layers I put on in the bathroom.
    I can’t stand it. Suddenly my life is so ugly, narrowed down to rutting like a bitch in heat. I shove him off me. “Get out.” My voice is low, steady, determined.
    “I said I’m sorry. C’mon. It’ll help with the cramps.”
    “You don’t care about me. All you care about is getting your rocks off. Get out, you bastard.”
    He sits up, moving backward to lean against the headboard. I hear him fumbling on the nightstand. “You don’t mean that.” He flicks the lid from his lighter and the flame shows his face in shifting yellow light and dark shadows. Inhaling deeply, he studies my face before closing the lighter.
    “Damn right I mean it. I want you out of here. Now.” I hear a hissing breath, and tobacco smoke winds around me.
    “Shit. It’s okay, doll. I’ll give you a pass.”
    I shove at his shoulder. “You’ll give me a pass? What the hell does that mean?” I turn on the lamp and glare at him as he sits there, naked, in my bed, against my headboard. His lean belly is fish white. His erection seems to be gaining a second life. Just like the sick bastard to get turned on by yelling.
    “When I say no, I mean no. You don’t give me a damn thing.”
    He grabs my hand and wraps it around his woody. “Okay. You can just get