Itlan Part one(i didnt write this..and the ending iz the best part)

Itlan Part one(i didnt write this..and the ending iz the best part)
“I’m so sorry, Miss ___,” the nurse says, looking at you sadly. She doesn’t even have to explain it to you, you burst into uncontrollable tears, pulling your legs up so you can cry into your knees. Why did this horrible thing have to happen to you? What did the world have against you? What had you ever done wrong? “There, there, dear,” the nurse says, rubbing your back gently. “It will all be okay. We have programs here that can help you get through pregnancy and motherhood. We’re connected to the state adoption program, should you want to put the baby up for adoption. And we also have an abortion clinic…” An abortion clinic. You had never thought you would even be considering going into one. But were you considering it? Could you get an abortion? Maybe it was the best thing to do… After all, the baby’s father wasn’t exactly going to be passing on good genes… He was a rapist, to put it frankly. He was a rapist and you were his victim. But there it was… You had thought it would be okay to make a late night grocery outing on foot if you had your pepper spray with you, but you were wrong. And now this. You mulled over the options in your mind. You weren’t ready to become a mother. But if you put the baby up for adoption, you’d be miserable, wondering how he/she turned out and how things could have been. But would aborting it be worse? Would you feel awful for aborting a baby? Or, if you kept it, would you regret bringing a rapist’s child into the world? How would a child even feel knowing that their mother loathes their father, knowing that their father is one of the worst kinds of criminals? A knock on the door interrupts your sobbing. “I’m sorry, Miss ___, but the police are in the lobby,” a young nurse tells you. “They’d like you to come in to see the line-up.” Rubbing your eyes, and pulling yourself to your feet, you shuffle to the lobby and allow the police to take you to the police office. The car is dead silent, as many people have been around you lately. No one knows how to treat you now, what to do with you. But at least, you think, they’ve caught him. You would have preferred that they do it sooner, but two weeks of being in contact with the police and giving them descriptions has finally paid off. Now you can make that bastard suffer just as he’s made you suffer. So you wait, almost in anticipation, for the men in the line-up to file out. They’re all about the same height and they all have black emo hair and band clothing, but you know you can pick him out. “Head up number five,” one of the officers say, and you watch as number five draws his head up from his feet and stares blankly ahead. You look closely at him, leaning forward to make sure. He looks the same as he did that dark night, although his hair is styled differently. And his eyes… they’re not wild like they were, more like… miserable. But then again you’d be miserable too if you were about to be prosecuted for a felony. “That’s him,” you tell the officers. “Number five.” You watched as the police officer stepped into the room and immediately number five’s head fell back down. “Ilan Johnson, you are under arrest for the rape of Miss ___ ___...” You listened as he was read his rights, not feeling the sense of triumph you had expected, but still the same numbness. A tap on your shoulder caused you to jump, and the young officer responsible looked at you apologetically. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss. The Chief asks that you wait in the lobby. We’d like to get another statement from you, but no questioning rooms are open at the moment.” You nod and return to the lobby to wait, leaning your head against the wall. You had forgotten briefly, but now your mind returns to the… the baby. What were you going to do about it? The sharp click of policeman heals snaps your attention back and you see the young officer again. He comes over to you, folder in hand, but just as he’s about to speak, his pager goes off. “Oh… er… sorry, could you…?” He hands you the folder as he checks his pager. “Oh great. Uhh… I have to… Could you wait in room… uh… two? Someone will be in to take your statement in a second.” “Sure,” you shrug. “And uh… could you get there yourself? I kinda need to…” “That’s fine,” you say, feeling sorry for the man. He looks completely overworked. As he darts off you silently show yourself to room two, still mulling over what you want to do. The door to room two is shut, but you let yourself in. Or rather, you open the door and step inside, only to stop dead in your tracks. The officer directed you to the wrong room. Because there, sitting with his head in his hands, in your rapist. He looks up as he hears the door open and freezes as you do when your eyes meet. You’re paralyzed with fear, unable to move. You both stare at each for what feels like ages before he speaks. “I know it’s not going to make a difference, but I’m sorry.” You can’t speak, so you only watch as he turns his gaze away from you and looks at his hands. “I told my mother I’d never do it. That I’d never do to anybody what she had done to her. But I get high once and…” “Oh God,” you mutter, your hand flying to your stomach as you realize what he’s saying. His mother was raped and had him. And now you’re… He looks at you sharply at you grab your stomach and his eyes widen. He looks up at you in shock and you can see the anguish in his eyes, but before he gets the chance to speak, someone is pulling you away and slamming the door. “Miss ___, I am so, so, sorry!” The police chief tells you, pulling you to the correct room. “There was a mix-up, but our conduct is entirely unacceptable. I cannot apologize enough for what you have just had to witness. Please, is there any way at all that we can make this up to you? Free counseling? Paying for a part of your lawyer fees? Compensation?” You sit yourself numbly in your chair, your head a whirlwind of confusion. “Yes,” you say, not totally aware of what’s coming out of your mouth. “I’d like for him to have a psychiatric evaluation.” “Ilan Johnson?” the police chief asks, surprised. “But… but the man is hardly crazy. He seems fully aware of the gravity of what he has done.” “You asked if I wanted compensation,” you retort. “That is what I want.” “Well…” the police chief says, obviously considering what you could accuse his offices of if he doesn’t give you what you want. “I suppose we could work something out.” “And,” you say, watching him wince. “I would like to be notified of the results, regardless of whether or not they are relevant in court.” “Fine,” the chief says, obviously relieved that you hadn’t asked for more. He quickly turns the conversation over to your statement and the rest of the day goes without any more trouble. As do the next two weeks, because you’ve decided to wait for the evaluation results before you make any decisions about the baby. So two weeks of more miserable trying-to-piece-yourself-back-together go by until you open the mail box to find the results of the evaluation. Probably more curious than you should be, you scramble to open the envelope. “It has been concluded that Mr. Ilan Johnson is mentally stable,” you read, though it wasn’t telling you anything you didn’t know. You read on. “As such, the crime in question was not perpetrated because of a mental deficiency. We believe that Mr. Johnson was acting under a genetic predisposition to commit such a crime (as he is the child of a rape victim) fueled by use of an illegal substance. Furthermore, Mr. Johnson shows an extreme sense of guilt for the crime he has committed. During the evaluation, he rambled on at length about what he imagines the mental state of the victim to be and described, with significant difficulty, a chance encounter he had with the victim after the crime was perpetrated as making him, “want to shoot himself.” Mr. Johnson broke down several times during the interview, most notably whenever it was mentioned that his victim was alleged to be pregnant. It is believed that Mr. Johnson’s anguish is derived mostly from guilt, but also draws from his admittance that his mother, whom he claims to have been close with, has disowned him. We do not recommend that Mr. Johnson be released for insanity, nor do we recommend that his evaluation be used in any legal trials, as his mental state does not affect Mr. Johnson’s guilt. We do recommend that Mr. Johnson be placed on suicide watch while serving any jail time he might receive or if he should be released.” You folded the letter back up, its words tumbling through your mind. This was… Your mind couldn’t process this. But, you reminded yourself, what was really important was what effect it had on what you would do with the baby. But the truth was… you didn’t know. On one hand, it did prove that his being the son of a rapist was why you had been raped. But on the other… he was sorry. What if any child you had made it past that point? The grandfather was a rapist with no remorse, the son was a rapist who admitted guilt because he felt it, and so the child was…? You reached for the phone, knowing what you had to do. “Hello, police department? My name is ___ ___. I would like to get into contact with a Ms. Johnson, mother of Ilan Johnson. Yes, I’m that ___ ___. For what purpose? I would like her advice.” And so, with number in hand an hour later, you shakily picked up the phone again. “Hello?” the quiet voice on the other end of the phone said. “Ummm… hello Ms. Marie Johnson?” you said, feeling close to tears, though you weren’t sure why. “My name is ___ ___. I’m ahh… Your son… Well…” “You’re the girl, aren’t you?” she said. “The one that he raped?” Her frank words stung your ears. “Yes.” There was silence at the other end for a moment. “Oh, you poor baby, I am so sorry.” (see part 2)
creato da: KitttyKat101

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