Welcome//little stranger.{Lethe}.

Lethe Turner

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The day it happened began like any other. Lethe Turner woke up, just like she did every single day. And on each day for the past nine months, she woke up with an aching back, feet, a churning stomach and an intense craving for ketchup. Groggily, she raised herself up onto her elbows to view her swollen abdomen rising up from under the sheets, like some tiny little mountain. That was what she'd become. A mountain. A mountain with a child inside of it, who took this opportunity to kick violently, causing Lethe to wince. It was one thing to feel the child stirring inside of her, moving just the slightest, skimming her insides with delicate hands. That feeling, the fluttery feeling, was startling, but calming. It reassured her. Her child was still there.

The kicking was a whole other thing. It wasn't as painful as she expected it to be, but it wasn't a comfortable sensation either. Slowly and carefully, Lethe ran her hand over her stomach. "You'll be out of there soon," she reassured her quietly. "Any day now," she repeated the phrase she'd coined from the lips of her mother. "Any day now."

Nine months had passed since that fateful night and Lethe, inflated like a balloon, was still holding the child inside, something she nor the child, with all the kicking they did, liked very much. "Any day now," her mother kept saying, eyeing Lethe's stomach, as if hoping Lethe were just concealing a ball or something under her shirt rather than a child. Lethe knew that she hoped that once Lethe gave birth, this whole business would be done. No more secrecy.

She was six months along when she was forced to tell. She was tired of wearing oversized clothing, avoiding her parents' eyes, becoming a recluse in the stables or her room and her sister's, Sarah's nagging to tell. Finally, she knew she had to. Better from her mouth than from that of a crying, shrieking child.

The living room was filled to the brim with her family that night. For a horrible second, jammed in between her questioning parents, Lethe found herself hurtling back to a time eight years ago.

"Lethe, you have a condition."

"No! I'm normal! I'm normal!"

But, Lethe was never normal. Normal wasn't the setting they put Victors on. Even before that, she wasn't normal. And now, she was far from your average nineteen year old. A pregnant-with a-bastard-child Victor, who couldn't recognize her own face? No, definitely not normal.

“What is it, Lethe?” her mother inquired, knitting her eyebrows at her daughter anxiously, dragging the girl from her thoughts. Glancing down at her hands, fidgeting in her lap, Lethe swallowed hard. The words formed in her throat, but stopped just before her tongue. She had to say it. She had to. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sarah watching, eyes wide.

“I’m pregnant,” she announced, testing the words out in the air. She peered around the room to see the reaction. Only blankness responded. “I’m pregnant,” she repeated, more force behind her words. This time, it sunk in. Instantly, babbling broke out across the room, frantic and uncensored.

“Pregnant?”

“I knew it!”

“How can Lethe be-?”

“Everyone quiet!” Lethe’s mother cried out and everyone fell silent at once. Now, Lethe was forced to face her own mother, whose wide eyes, gaping mouth betrayed nothing but horror. Years spent begging her daughter to find a man, get married and have children and now, when Lethe finally was pregnant, she looked appalled. Thanks, mom, Lethe thought, sighing aloud. “How far along are you, Lethe?” her mother asked into the deafening silence.

“Six months…?” Lethe answered, shrinking back into her seat, like a child to be disciplined.

“Six months?” her mother cried out incredulously. Then, she spoke to herself, her voice quivering. “How did I not notice? Six months? How-”

“Lethe,” it was her father who spoke and when Lethe looked into his face, she swiftly had to look away, her own face burning bright red, having only found disappointment there, “who’s the father?”

Eric. Eric Rhodes. Lethe longed to answer with the name that had been haunting her for the past six months, hanging over her like a storm cloud. Where was he now? Was he thinking of her? Or had she slipped from his mind? He didn’t know…“A Capitol boy,” Lethe admitted quietly, studying her fidgeting hands again. “I, uhm, don’t know his name…I was drunk, okay?” Instantly, the astonished chattering broke out again, but it was Lethe who called over it. “Stop, okay? I’m pregnant and I kind of want you guys to help me out here…please.”

“Oh, of course!” her mother cried, filling her voice with that falseness that usually accompanied her conversations about Lethe getting married and how desirable she was. “What do you need?” Now, that was genuine question. Lethe looked up, feeling the stares boring into her, but these stares were joined by eager nods. The room was buzzing for the third time, but it was a different kind of buzzing.

“What are you going to name the baby?”

“I have some maternity clothes from when I had Mackenzie. You can borrow them!”

“Any food you want? Cravings can be rough.”

And at that moment, Lethe felt it washing over her. Support. Help. They didn’t see the monster when they looked at her. Not now, at least. Now, they wanted to help her. And for the first time in months, Lethe felt her hard, dry face crack into a smile. A real smile, carrying her gratitude behind her. She had her family. And that was what mattered right?

Wrong.

Well, kind of.

Lethe soon realized that even with her family’s support, carrying this child wasn’t going to be easy. She’d known it for the last six months before then, but perhaps it was desperation that had her hoping that by telling her family, this burden would be lifted. But, no, it only got heavier.

It wasn’t only the weight. It was the disappointment, hanging heavily on her chest, pushing her downward. A day didn’t pass when Lethe’s father, at random moments, like over breakfast, didn’t ask, “So, do you know his name? Got his telephone number? We can call him now, you know.”

And each time, she focused on her cornflakes or whatever else she was doing and shook her head.“No, no, no.”

If the disappoint was bad, her mother was even worse. Mrs. Turner had never expected her daughter to actually heed her advice. She hadn’t thought ahead enough to that, but now she was forced to and she wasn’t happy. She didn’t want to be the one responsible for this. No, this was all Lethe. Drunk Lethe. Now pregnant Lethe. And so, she put on that fake, plastic smile every day.

“Any day now,” she sang shrilly, an awful rhythm that haunted Lethe even in her sleep. “Any day now.” Lethe tried not to think that far, taking on what her mother had done before, but not caring. To her, it was take each day one at a time and dealt with what hit her then, at that moment. Not the future.

Slowly and gingerly, Lethe pulled herself out of bed. Her back cracked satisfyingly as she moved to get dressed and continued to until she was downstairs. Flurries were gliding past the windows and Lethe’s younger siblings were already racing through the halls, hoping they could build a snowman by the end of the day. Lethe smiled, knowing their hopes were only that of childhood. Alas, these were children. For a split, heart-stopping second, Lethe wondered if the child inside of her would be the same. Dancing and running at the sight of snow. What if they were not amused by the wonders of nature. Then, Lethe giggled. All kids loved snow.

Once in the kitchen, Lethe found her father in there, surrounded by some boys who worked with him at the stables. Immediately, she made to leave, but his words stopped her cold.

“The last one. And sick. She’ll be dead by tomorrow.” Her father shook his head and rubbed his jaw. “Poor Eunice.”

“Eunice is sick?” Lethe asked. All the men looked to her instantly, but their eyes didn’t meet hers. They stared at her stomach, as if it had sprouted eyes. Slowly, her father nodded with a hollow look in his eyes. “Our last horse?” He nodded again. Lethe swallowed hard, refusing the tears from pooling in her eyes. “I need to go see her,” she decided, walking into the kitchen to grab her coat off of the back of a chair.

“No, Lethe. Not in your-” Her father stopped short and again, Lethe could see the disappointment glistening in his eyes. He didn’t want to mention it, she knew, not in front of this men, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats and looked away. “It’s snowing,” her father finally decided on, swallowing hard.

“It’s only a flurry,” Lethe replied, “I’ll be fine.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched from the room, ignoring her father’s shouts behind her. The only thing on her mind was Eunice’s chestnut head. Not their last horse. First Susie, then the rest of them…not Eunice now.

The first blast of cold air jolted Lethe, the flurries flying down to kiss, but then burn her cheeks, lips and nose, but she pressed on. The biggest problem Lethe had with having a huge stomach was walking. All she could do was waddle, clutching the small of her back. There had been a time when she would laugh at her mother’s awkward treading when she was pregnant, but now, she felt bad for it, having to bear the burden herself.

The few people out and about cast their eyes suspiciously at Lethe, but she stared straight ahead as she moved. It had been a long time since she’d been out and they all knew it. But, her mother didn’t see it fit for a Victor to be seen out with an illegitimate child in her belly. Lethe wondered what they would think when she actually held the child in her hands.

Coming into view, the stables look small as ever, dwarfed by the size of the oil rigs and refineries that now dotted the District. But, Lethe could care less. She’d spent most of her childhood in that stable and it didn’t matter if it were a mansion or a shack. It was like her second home.

Contrary to what she’d entered to years ago, the sound of soft pawing, whinnying, the smell of manure and the tossing of heads, Lethe walked into almost complete silence. The sick horse was on the ground, out of her stall, as there was no more use for it. Eunice was the only horse left. And now she was sick too, most likely to die.

Lethe approached the horse and awkwardly got down to sit on a horse blanket, on her bottom, her legs splayed out. Reaching forward, as best she could, she stroked the horse’s smooth hide, who responding by pressing her wet, drippy nose into Lethe’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” Lethe assured the horse softly, “It’s going to be-”

That was when the contractions started. They caught her off guard. A burst of pain. Lethe groaned and clutched at her stomach. More followed. Pain was pressing down on her stomach, and suddenly, something wet was running down Lethe’s leg. Great, she’d peed her pants…but, no…it didn’t stop…her water had broke.

More agonizing pain pressed down into her, keeping her on the ground. A scream let loose from her mouth as she fell backward, breathing heavily. Agony, so much agony…trying to push out…so much pain…scream…contraction…Lethe was in…labor…pain…

He was going to kill her. She clutched at the empty eye socket, which did little to staunch the heavy blood flow down her face. Her other wounds bled freely, but kept the torturous pain deep with her body. He was going to kill her. There was no use in living. She should just fall, let herself be overcome by the rain.

No, throw one more. Another after that. C’mon, Lethe, you can do this, they were saying…but they weren’t there with her…push, Lethe…you can do it…she could win this…just one more…push, Lethe, push…

She’d won.

They’d been attracted by her screams and found the girl, huddled in the stables, nearly passed out from the pain. They’d called a midwife, guided her through it. Word spread quickly after that.

Lethe Turner in the stables.

If you managed to push through the eager, chattering crowd that had blocked the stable entrance, and made your way through the dense group actually inside the stable, you’d find a young girl, wrapped up in a horse blanket on the ground. Cradling in her arms, as if she were gold, is a newborn baby girl with fuzzy blonde hair and such bright green eyes, they’re almost lamp-like. If you asked the girl, softly, the child’s name, she’ll look at you, her face shining with tears and sweat, her own eyes bright as if she’d been enlightened.

Slowly and softly, pride in her voice, she would answer you, “Her name is Eden Saskia Turner-Rhodes. And she’s mine. All mine.” [/color][/blockquote][/size]