Mary: Revisited

words by Cayla Celis, art by Mariam Seshan

He told me I was pregnant yesterday.

When I came home from school, I saw him pick at my parents’ pork adobo while my parents rummaged through the pantry. I stood there mesmerized for a while—what else was I supposed to do? At some point he noticed me staring and stared back.

My mother was the one who broke the trance. “Maria, I didn’t hear you come in. How was cooking club?”

“It was good. Wh— what’s going on?”

He gestured at the chair across from him. I walked towards and sat, in a trance almost.

“Sorry about my manners,” he said in such a gentle voice.

My lips were glued shut for some time, but I managed to get out an “Immaculate One.”

He smiled. He wrapped his hands around mine, and the school uniform I swore I outgrew since lunch today became much bigger than I could ever be. I touched his hands. His soft, all-loving hands.

Then he told me with such gentleness, I swore it was almost… careless.

It never crossed my mind that I would get picked—honest. There are much prettier girls, much more pious girls. How did I get picked? Better yet, how did I become pregnant?

I was too scared to ask, and so once he explained the special arrangements I was too zoned out to listen to, he left with much self-assurance.

Before he left, one thing he said stuck with me:

“He will be glorious, won’t he?”

—

The word spread around my school. It’s weird now walking down the hallways.

Everyone stares at me and my stupid bulging stomach. They stare at me when I exit the bathroom stall with vomit at the corner of my lip. They stare at me when I’m at my desk doing work when I feel the urge to sneeze before I feel the urge to pee. They stare at me as I eat lunch, watching how my stomach stretches the polo shirt that used to be so big on me. They stare at me when I attend cooking club, keeping their eyes on me as my hands brush but never hold the wines I loved to cook with before. Even my parents stare at me during dinner, always pushing me to eat, sleep, eat, sleep.

I can’t walk on my own, I can’t do anything. Sometimes I cry at night. It’s too much. I am not a person anymore; I am not me anymore. I am of the baby now.

—

Sometimes I dream of the Immaculate One. I feel guilty because I know he knows everything about me, about everyone really.

It’s always the same dream; I’m in the kitchen, watching the chicken adobo fry when I feel the Immaculate One’s presence around me. There’s something so disconcerting about it—it’s as if my every move, every twitch my fingers make, is surveyed. At some point I realize he’s simply waiting for me to make a mistake. I realize that I’m cooking not because I want to but because he let me. It makes me feel suffocated, and it’s so strong that I burn the kitchen down every time.

I always wake up in a cold sweat, wishing the nightmare that is my life would just end. I’ve tried time and time to end it all—I’ve gone to my closet and opened it and curled my fingers around an empty hanger too many times to count. And too many times then I’ve felt a big kick in my belly.

I’m here, the baby seemed to be saying, I’m here with you.

I’d always ask how could it be? How could it be when its own existence wasn’t even my choice?

I’m here, I’m here with you.

Still— Could I end it all?

I’m here with you, I’m here with you.

And always, always, it’s then I feel a surge of determination.

Its existence was never my choice, but at least its upbringing was. I could cook my favorite dishes for it, teach it to outcook everyone in its class, laugh about its mean teachers at school, and so much more. Most importantly, I could make sure it was never alone like I am now. Seeing all the possibilities and all the possible happy memories made living seem…possible.

So I chose to continue living my own nightmare.

—

I stopped going to school a few months ago. It got to the point where I was too much to monitor. So I stayed at home, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and think about the baby and how’d he be like growing up.

Would he be like me and prefer pancit over steak? Would he have acne scars on his forehead or forget to wash behind his ears?

Or would he be more like the Immaculate One? Would his skin be soft and smooth like his? Would he be all-knowing?

Would he know how much turmoil he left me in?

I was pondering this a few hours ago when something inside me gushed out. I thought it was pee at first; thinking back on it, maybe I was hoping it was just pee.

And then I felt a wave of pain.

It wasn’t bad, just odd. But it was only a matter of time til a multitude of waves hit; wave after wave rushed over me, each one delivering dizzying pain even though I was lying down.

The next one delivered dread; it was time.

And now everything hurts so much.

I can barely think. I could barely do anything while being rushed to the hospital.

All I can do is think about the pain.

I have asked for pain relief, don’t get me wrong. But the hospital staff refused, on orders of the Immaculate One. I have to do this alone.

The pressure around my pelvis is enormous. Everyone is screaming for me to push, push, PUSH.

And so I strain harder than I’ve ever pooped, screaming for an end to it all. It’s all cyclic—push → pain → pain → push → pain. And on and on it goes (please end, please end).

Release, oh god finally, there’s release. A final push, and he’s out, ripping out my skin until it bleeds out.

There’s so much blood. So much, so much. My head is spinning, and I shiver underneath my hospital gown.

They coo at him and give him more affection than I could ever have.

And as I lay here, I feel so alone—because I am so alone. Everyone claims I have been touched by holiness, but I am nothing but hollow. My body is torn, my heart is broken, and my mind is fragmented.

How beautiful—his life worth far more than mine.