Misplaced Rationality

         She hurled the urine-covered device at the bathroom door and watched it bounce, but quickly jumped up to collect it, returning it back to its torn box, and spraying down the things it may have touched with Lysol. When the bathroom was appropriately sanitized, she stood in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection.

         Her face looked pale and sickly, and her skin had adopted a strange bluish tinge. Her glasses were slightly tilted and her dark hair was somewhat disheveled, mostly because she’d been running her fingers through it excessively for the last fifteen minutes. She watched her eyes well up with tears, but the sight made her uncomfortable. She destroyed them promptly.

         A wave of nausea came over her, and she sank down on to the bathroom floor. She took deep breaths and regained control of her body. Then she settled against the wall, staring determinedly at a chipped tile.

         “Good thing my parents aren’t home,” she thought absently. “It would be strange for them to find me sitting in here.”

         If any part of her rational self had been present at this moment, it would have realized that being found sitting on the bathroom floor was possibly the most minor of her concerns. Her rational self would be making lists of pros and cons, would be marking key dates on a calendar, would be checking bank balances and making calculations. Her rational self would not, under any circumstances, be wasting time contemplating floor patterns.

         But her rational self seemed to have gotten misplaced during this entire endeavor. It would never have allowed her to get into this mess to start with. It would have reminded her that she was financially unstable, that she was too busy for new responsibilities…that she didn’t want them yet.

         She drew her knees up to her chest and placed her chin on top. The situation was so unlikely and so absurd that she was having trouble grasping it. Perhaps it was impossible? Perhaps she had misread.

         She hadn’t. And she knew that.

         She knew it the first time she read the first test. She knew it after she’d reviewed the directions. She knew it after the second test, as well the third.

         No. She hadn’t misunderstood.

         Her mind was starting to accept the whole concept—or at least it was coming to terms with it. Mostly, she was beginning to undergo a numbness that was making it hard to decipher which feelings she was actually experiencing. They were running together, dirty laundry water in her brain.

         She reached behind her and turned the knobs on the bathtub faucet, then closed the drain. Droplets splattered on her arm as the tub filled. In a few moments, she undressed and climbed in. The water was barely lukewarm, but she hardly noticed. Instead, she observed her naked figure, wondering if it would be the same after this whole incident was over. Bathing suit season was coming up soon. This might interfere slightly.

         She tried to determine whether or not she cared, but her feelings were still too far out of reach.

         The bathtub water covered her stomach and chest. She allowed it to continue running and began drawing circles in soap residue on the side of the tub. The bathroom lights flickered slightly, and for a moment the whole situation felt like a dream sequence in a movie. She briefly considered whether this might all be in her head.

         “What a mess, what a mess, what a mess,” she mumbled out loud, but her voice sounded hollow and unfamiliar. She stopped talking. A lump began to form in her throat. She tried to swallow it. She clenched her jaws tightly, trying to withhold tears that were attempting to escape. This was ridiculous. It was impossible. It wasn’t happening.

         The bathtub was getting full, but she didn’t shut the faucet off.

         This way, if someone came home, the running water would prevent them from hearing Wendy cry.