by Emily Brummett
A heavy waft of Sunday breakfast
earlier than a routine Sunday hangover
Each smell circles my stomach
and lumps slide up and down my throat,
and a headache forms.
After one drunken night.
I shuffle through the puddled parking lot
into the local CVS
and dart to the bathroom,
throwing my body over the toilet bowl,
to confirm another Google search result.
At the counter I frantically rummage my pockets-
Pulling loose change and dollar bills.
Face hidden under my hood,
I grab the bag and shove in my jacket
walking swiftly to my stretch-marked Civic
The cul de sac is full of life-
more than last time I was home.
And I walk in the house
past my parents’ laughter in the kitchen
squeaking up the wooden stairs,
and barricading myself in the bathroom.
Shaking, fumbling the box and directions:
+ is Pregnant, – is Not Pregnant.
I read it over and over again.
Two minutes later,
Couched on the cold, tiled floor,
I reach to grab my future from the counter-top
as date parties and tailgates
crumble through my fingers
like baby powder.
About the Author:
Emily Brummett is a young and aspiring international business entrepreneur who enjoys traveling and writing in her free time. She was published in the Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 14., No. 20, and was featured in the Adelaide Anthology 2018. She is greatly obliged to her friends and family for their endless support.