Dead.

Poor little squashed bird. I step over it on the pavement, a mass of clotted brown and white feathers, matted with dried blood, as I trudge to the doctors. I see death everywhere. Dead leaves, torn away from their life source and crispy brown and pitiful on the ground. Dead looks in my eyes reflected in cold car windows. Dead skin around my chewed fingernails. Fingernails. Scratching into the consciousness of my morning, as I crunch through dead leaves, and I am not alone. I am never alone. The extra person in every room, invisible but for a slightly thicker waistline, slightly tighter jeans- there are two of us now. I know this, but am on my way to my doctors to receive an ear-bashing from the receptionist for missing my last appointment, and to be told what I already know- that I am pregnant. A familiar feeling of nausea spins in my stomach. I am due a 12 week scan now, surely. Any day now. I cast my mind back guiltily to binge drinking sessions, cocktail nights, cider swigged on walls defiantly at pub closing times, parties where I stayed drunk for days, and hope with all my fruit and vegetables and vitamins now, I can start to rectify some of the damage I may have done. I don't stop by the store every day for Marlboro Reds anymore, but rather fruits and vegetables, smoothies and fresh fish. I hope it will all be okay.