Choose Your Own Adventure

by Rosalina "Rosie" Valdez

You need to feel the belt tighten around your arm, your heartbeat pulsating through your body, the surge that courses through your veins as soon as you inject yourself with Heroin.

You didn't know these periods of bliss would come at such a price, and now you stand, 17, homeless, and malnourished on a darkened street corner waiting for anyone horny enough to pay for a blowjob or quick fuck.

And in their cars, they'll fuck you. The words bitch and cunt will come out of their alcohol drenched mouths as they fuck you good and hard; hitting you because they know they can and you won't say a word. You can't. Then, after they've made you swallow, they'll throw their money at you, and you're back on your street corner, waiting for the next one.

Waiting for your next hit.

So, there you are: alone, greasy, stringy hair matted to your head, trying to wipe the snot dripping from your nose with the back of your hand and trying to look as seductive as a 98 pound kid possibly can under that dimly lit street corner.

A black Lincoln Towncar slowly idles to a stop next to you. You can see the beady eyed, double chined, businessman motion you over, and ask you if you're up for a good time.

If you decide to get in the car, turn to page 86.
If you decide not to go into the car, turn to page 94.

Your friends and family start worrying about your behaviour but with a reassuring smile and quick words you're able to assure them that you're alright; that you've just been tired recently.

You spend your nights on the internet, researching different methods of killing yourself. You're not going to kill yourself, you tell yourself; you're simply intrigued by the different methods.

But you're hurting on the inside. You know that you're intrigued on a whole different level. You look at it as a means to an end. And you're scared shitless about this. If there were any other way, you'd take it.

You learn that if you take a painter's mask, and get a baggie you use to get produce at your local grocery store, you can drink a nice little concoction made of various pills, place the painter's mask on, slip the bag over your head and you can die a painless death.

Your parents' leave for the weekend and have entrusted you with looking over the house for the weekend.

You're in your attic. A receipt from the hardware store shows a large amount of rope was bough, and there are instructions you downloaded from the net on how to make a hangman's noose on the floor.

If you're going to go through with it and hang yourself, turn to page 63.
If you're going to call a friend, tell them what's going on, and that you need help, turn to page 57.

You sit there on the edge of your bed knowing that your whole life has been flipped upside down. You twist and crumple that piece of paper over and over again in your hands hoping that the next time you unfold it; it will say something completely different.

You hope and pray to any god that's willing to listen that those two pink bars mean you're not pregnant.

But you know that's not the case. And all you can do is curse your boyfriend, who you know as soon as he hears will be a thing of the past. You curse those condom commercials that claim their product is effective except for the two percent of the population you now fall into.

And you curse yourself. And you curse this now ticking time bomb that's waiting to ruin your life.

You know time is running out.

You ditch your Philosophy course and head to the clinic your campus' health services recommended to you.

Outside Pro Life supporters block your entranceway, calling you a sinner, telling you how you'll rot in Hell if you kill this child. You tell them to get out of your way, that they don't understand, you couldn't possibly understand what was going on.

Someone spits in your face and calls you a whore.

Inside you're asked to take a seat and wait to be called on. You clutch at the tiny crucifix around your neck as tears stream down your face.

Finally you're name is called and you're in a cold, cramped room speaking to what looks to be a Betty Friedan bandwagoner; a woman who did a little too much partying in her day, found empowerment and was now helping troubled women.

She tells you your options: aborting the child or giving it up for adoption. She doesn't lead you one way or another and that makes it all the more difficult, all the more painful.

You set up an appointment for next Tuesday at 9 AM to have the abortion.

It's Tuesday, 8:57 AM and you're outside of the clinic.

If you're going though with the abortion, turn to page 78.
If you're can't go through with it, turn to page 93.

What you do with the story is up to you.
There are always more pages to turn to.
You always have a choice.