The other girls hate the night shift, they say it’s creepy being out there on the side of the highway, with no other shops or houses for miles and only the ticking clock to keep you company. But I found it relaxing, having all that time to myself. I grew up in a big family, full of screaming and hollering and the occasional whack on the ear if I talked back. I left that house as soon as I could, but the boyfriend-turned-husband I ran to was also partial to giving me a wack. Now I enjoy the quiet, the peace of a night shift. I don’t need 10 tables of assholes clicking their fingers at me and demanding I take their pancakes back so they can “be cooked right this time”. The occasional customer that comes rolling in off the highway this late at night is often strange but almost always polite. Mostly though, it’s just me.
So I’m surprised when just after 2 am the bell above the door jingles and she walks in. She doesn’t look a day over 16, far too young to be out here alone. She is tiny, not even 100lbs and her clothes hang loose off her bony frame. Her eyes are sunken and her skin is pale, stretched tightly across her face. She lugs a large duffel bag in with her, which she slips to the floor as she climbs into a stool across the counter from me.
Before I can talk she asks, “Are you married?”
I’m surprised by her question, but I know if I grill her too hard about her situation she will probably spook, and I would rather she at least have a hot meal in her before she leaves if I can help it.
“I was once, a long time ago. But it turns out he wasn’t so nice,” I reply. I don’t know why I tell her the truth.
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” she sighs.
“You aren’t old enough to be married,” I say and I mean it.
“I’ll be nineteen in May,” she replies.
I pour her a cup of coffee and watch as she cradles the mug in her hands. Her nails are filthy, but underneath the dirt, they are filed perfectly. The diamond ring on her finger looks real too. Her fall from grace must have been recent.
“Can I get you anything to eat?” I ask.
“No,” she replies.
I wait, sensing that she needs to tell me something, or that she needs to tell someone something, and I happen to be the only option she’s got. She stares into her coffee as she begins to talk.
“My mama was very traditional and very religious. If I did anything that she thought God would disapprove of, she would beat me. She kept me home so I wouldn’t be around boys, she said that my body would make them think impure thoughts and want to do impure things. I had no idea what she meant, but I was too scared of her to question it. I wanted to learn, but she refused to home school me. She said I didn’t need any of that fancy book knowledge, all I needed was to know how to be a good wife and mother. Occasionally, if she was in a good mood, she would sit me on her lap and tell me about my impending duties. She would tell me about how I would know I was ready for a husband because the first blood would come, and then I would be ready to be married and bear children. She told me it was my job.
I didn’t want to bleed, and I didn’t want a husband, but what choice did I have? I prayed that the blood wouldn’t come, but it did, as it always does eventually. It arrived, a scarlet stain on my sheets, a contract on my soul, just shy of my 18th birthday.
It didn’t take long for the men to start sniffing around. I don’t know how the word got out, but suddenly they were there, arriving with flowers for Mama, calling in for cups of tea. I stayed hidden upstairs. I knew I had no choice in the matter. Soon he was picked, or maybe I was the one who was picked. Nick. Tall and menacing, he wore a dark suit and had Mama convinced within ten minutes that I was to be his bride.
So it was decided, I was to be wed. The dress, picked out by Mama on my sweet 16th was hemmed and the ceremony was performed the next day in the back garden. The dark skies matched my dark mood and when he kissed me his skin felt hot. I left Mama then, with a small suitcase and a sudden, unexpected urge to stay. At least she was a known horror. He grinned at me in the backseat and his eyes glinted in the afternoon light. He reminded me of a wolf, and I, his prey. He made my skin crawl. He barely spoke to me as he lead me into the house, our house I guess, but he took what he wanted. When he was done, he left.
I waited a week, then called Mama to collect me. She was distraught, convinced that I had done something to scare him away. When she saw the bloody stain on the back of my wedding gown, she screamed that nobody would want me now I was spoiled. I crawled into bed and stayed there. She didn’t want to see me, and I didn’t want to see her, so it took a long time for her to notice my swelling womb.”
She pauses and takes another sip of her coffee, no doubt it is cold now. She doesn’t look up at me and I don’t say anything, I want to let her finish. Because I think she needs to, and selfishly because I am enthralled by what she is saying. We get our fair share of crazies around here, especially in the middle of the night, but somehow she doesn’t feel crazy.
“By the time she does notice, there is nothing that can be done. My fate as a now unwed mother is sealed. The look in her eyes lets me know what I am worth to her, but she doesn’t kick me out. No doubt the shame of anyone finding out would be worse than anything else. We come to a sort of agreement, her silent judgment is my daily punishment for all my failures and in exchange for keeping out of the way I am spared from being beaten. I spend most of my time hiding in my room, curled up in bed. I am exhausted. She brings me food but I do not eat.
My belly grows.
My belly grows.
My belly grows.
With it, grows the pain, a sharp, unnatural pain from deep within, and with that, grows the fear. I do not want any part of him inside me, but here it grows.
Soon it’s hard to get out of bed, and Mama reluctantly has to help me. I am dizzy, my head spinning when she helps me up to use the bathroom. When I lie down the pain is worse. When I don’t think I can stand it any longer a rush of dark, sticky blood erupts out of me, almost black against the sheets. I beg Mama to call a doctor, but she won’t, no one can know about this. I realize suddenly then her plan is to make this all go away.
The pain which before felt unbearable, is now excruciating, ripping me apart from the inside out. I scream that something is wrong, sweat dripping from my face but she remains tight-lipped and determined. ‘This is your job’ she tells me, ‘And your curse.’
A flash of pain, blinding in its intensity rips through me and I am convinced that I will die, that no human could ever survive this pain. My vision goes black just as I hear a scream.
When I wake Mama is dead and the room is covered in blood. It coats the bed and the floors, splashes up the walls, drips from the roof. I don’t know which is hers and which is mine. It’s blood at the start of everything, and at the end. I don’t look too closely at Mama’s mangled frame before I leave.”
She takes another sip of her coffee, and I notice that the dirt around her fingernails isn’t dirt at all, but dried blood. My heart begins to thump unevenly in my chest and my previous certainty that she wasn’t one of the crazy ones melts into cold, damp fear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do,” she says, and in her voice is the sadness of a lifetime much longer than 18 years.
When she stands I see the blood on her stool, soaked through her pants and dripping to the ground. She sways and the sharp copper scent hits my nose, making me pull back sharply. My hands are shaking and before I can even think of what to do she is leaving.
“Wait,” I call, even though I don’t want her to stay.
The bell jingles and she is gone, leaving nothing but the acrid smell of blood lingering in the air. I take a second, trying to slow my rasping breath and pounding heart. Then I notice it, out of the corner of my eye, the duffle bag.
I stare, the seconds loudly clicking by on the clock, seeming to last minutes each. I know what’s going to happen before it does, but when the bag moves I still gasp.
“The baby,” I whisper, my hand unconsciously reaching out.
A small, sharp whimper leaks from the bag and I jump. I walk slowly until I reach it. I know there is an innocent baby in there that needs my help, so why can’t I move?
Another sound from the bag, this one rougher, more guttural.
With shaking hands, I slowly unzip the bag, wishing like anything I had never agreed to this god-forsaken extra shift.
A movement, then a scream. The noise fills the diner, ear-splitting and sharp. I recoil, running then stumbling into the empty kitchen. It’s deafening, booming all around me. It’s not until I crawl into the cold store, pulling the heavy door closed behind me that I realize that it’s me that’s screaming. I take a shuddering breath and the screams turn into sobs.
Now I am stuck in this cold store, with no one due to arrive for three and a half hours. I only have my shit polyester uniform and it’s getting colder. I don’t have enough reception to make a call, but I am praying that this message will send because I really, really need your help and there is no way I am going back out there, not after what I saw.
Because that baby wasn’t a baby at all. Its skin was black and hard, as if it had been burnt, its tiny mouth was full of tiny teeth, sharp and gleaming. But the worst were its eyes, completely red, as if made from blood.