fic: Through the Wilderness (the O.C. - Kirsten Nichol) PG
Through the Wilderness
1000 words. PG. Originally posted here.
I made it through the wilderness
Somehow I made it through
Didn't know how lost I was
--Madonna, "Like A Virgin"
She wonders if all clinics are like this one or if she just happened to pick the crappiest one in California. She looks around the lobby, at the desk and the other women sitting around in stiff plastic chairs, most of them with big hair and Madonna garb. And neon colors. She winces and approaches the desk, pushing a length of her blonde hair out of her face.
"Um, hello," she says. "I'm here to... I have an appointment... I'm--"
The receptionist smiles knowingly, sympathetically, and nods. "It's all right, dear," she tells her. "I know what you mean." She turns a quarter turn, her chair squeaking loudly in protest, and picks up a clipboard and a Bic. "Fill this form out and bring it back up."
"Thank you," she tells the receptionist, grateful that she wasn't forced to voice what she didn't want to voice.
She sits down in one of the chairs, frowning like all the other women at how sad the chair is. The pregnant girl to her left, not a day over fourteen, looks at her mournfully and mutters something about God and her mother in Spanish. The black woman to her right thumbs through a magazine and ignores her.
Date: September 19, 1984
Name (optional): Kirsten Nichol
Age (years and months): 17 and 10 months
Hair color: Blonde
Eye color: Blue
She looks at her handwriting, detaching herself carefully from the situation she faces, and frowns. The i's are dotted crookedly, her o's are squashed, and her e's look more like vines with fruit on them. The one in her age could effectively rival the bell tower in Pisa.
She doesn't think about how Jimmy would react to what she's doing. She doesn't care right now. She doesn't even think about what her father would say, or Hailey. Well, maybe Hailey. The girl always has mysteriously accurate sex advice, which Kirsten has never regarded as disturbing, even though it comes a thirteen-year-old.
Height: 5'8"
Weight: 116 pounds
She's lying, making up a number that sounds real. She's underweight, but she's afraid if she puts her real weight, they won't let her go through with it. She has to go through with it. She wants to go home and climb in bed with her mother and pretend that the past two months haven't happened.
Are you a resident of California? Yes
Have you ever been hospitalized for a major illness or injury: No
If yes, what was the cause for the stay? not applicable.
She spells "applicable" wrong once and crosses it out. The ink blots on the cross-out and she's careful not to smear the form.
Date of last period: May 16-ish, 1984
She doesn't remember when exactly. It's not like she keeps track. She's only seventeen. She's only in high school.
It's then that she decides that, in an effort to never have to be inaccurate on a form again, to be hyper-organized. Hailey will probably mock her for it. Jimmy won't understand. Her father won't notice. She smiles to herself, despite the circumstances she's sitting in, and continues on with the form.
Have you ever had a procedure of this nature before? No
Dear God, no. Her father would kill her. That's why she's all the way down in Chino or wherever the hell she drove to escape Orange County. She glances at the top of the form, where the clinic's address is printed. Chino, California. She wonders if that's far enough away. Maybe she should have gone to Vegas.
How many girls do this a day in Vegas? She can't imagine.
If yes, how recently? n/a
She doesn't even bother to try and spell "applicable" again. She's exhausted already.
Are you currently employed? No
She hasn't worked a day in her life, at least for payment. She frowns at this, too, realizing that it makes her sound spoiled and silly. She decides to ask her father for a job as soon as she gets back to Newport. Just so she'll never have to mark "no" on a form again.
The state of California mandates that you sign, declaring that you are aware of the risks associated with this procedure and that you are willing and able to accept them.
Kirsten Nichol.
She doesn't dwell on the fact the form dances around the word for what she's doing. She just thanks whichever of Roe and Wade has made this possible for her.
She stands up, taking a deep breath. "I'm--" she starts to say to the receptionist but finds that once again, words are neither possible nor necessary. She smiles instead.
"It's okay, dear," the woman tells her, "this isn't the end of your life."
1000 words. PG. Originally posted here.
I made it through the wilderness
Somehow I made it through
Didn't know how lost I was
--Madonna, "Like A Virgin"
She wonders if all clinics are like this one or if she just happened to pick the crappiest one in California. She looks around the lobby, at the desk and the other women sitting around in stiff plastic chairs, most of them with big hair and Madonna garb. And neon colors. She winces and approaches the desk, pushing a length of her blonde hair out of her face.
"Um, hello," she says. "I'm here to... I have an appointment... I'm--"
The receptionist smiles knowingly, sympathetically, and nods. "It's all right, dear," she tells her. "I know what you mean." She turns a quarter turn, her chair squeaking loudly in protest, and picks up a clipboard and a Bic. "Fill this form out and bring it back up."
"Thank you," she tells the receptionist, grateful that she wasn't forced to voice what she didn't want to voice.
She sits down in one of the chairs, frowning like all the other women at how sad the chair is. The pregnant girl to her left, not a day over fourteen, looks at her mournfully and mutters something about God and her mother in Spanish. The black woman to her right thumbs through a magazine and ignores her.
Date: September 19, 1984
Name (optional): Kirsten Nichol
Age (years and months): 17 and 10 months
Hair color: Blonde
Eye color: Blue
She looks at her handwriting, detaching herself carefully from the situation she faces, and frowns. The i's are dotted crookedly, her o's are squashed, and her e's look more like vines with fruit on them. The one in her age could effectively rival the bell tower in Pisa.
She doesn't think about how Jimmy would react to what she's doing. She doesn't care right now. She doesn't even think about what her father would say, or Hailey. Well, maybe Hailey. The girl always has mysteriously accurate sex advice, which Kirsten has never regarded as disturbing, even though it comes a thirteen-year-old.
Height: 5'8"
Weight: 116 pounds
She's lying, making up a number that sounds real. She's underweight, but she's afraid if she puts her real weight, they won't let her go through with it. She has to go through with it. She wants to go home and climb in bed with her mother and pretend that the past two months haven't happened.
Are you a resident of California? Yes
Have you ever been hospitalized for a major illness or injury: No
If yes, what was the cause for the stay? not applicable.
She spells "applicable" wrong once and crosses it out. The ink blots on the cross-out and she's careful not to smear the form.
Date of last period: May 16-ish, 1984
She doesn't remember when exactly. It's not like she keeps track. She's only seventeen. She's only in high school.
It's then that she decides that, in an effort to never have to be inaccurate on a form again, to be hyper-organized. Hailey will probably mock her for it. Jimmy won't understand. Her father won't notice. She smiles to herself, despite the circumstances she's sitting in, and continues on with the form.
Have you ever had a procedure of this nature before? No
Dear God, no. Her father would kill her. That's why she's all the way down in Chino or wherever the hell she drove to escape Orange County. She glances at the top of the form, where the clinic's address is printed. Chino, California. She wonders if that's far enough away. Maybe she should have gone to Vegas.
How many girls do this a day in Vegas? She can't imagine.
If yes, how recently? n/a
She doesn't even bother to try and spell "applicable" again. She's exhausted already.
Are you currently employed? No
She hasn't worked a day in her life, at least for payment. She frowns at this, too, realizing that it makes her sound spoiled and silly. She decides to ask her father for a job as soon as she gets back to Newport. Just so she'll never have to mark "no" on a form again.
The state of California mandates that you sign, declaring that you are aware of the risks associated with this procedure and that you are willing and able to accept them.
Kirsten Nichol.
She doesn't dwell on the fact the form dances around the word for what she's doing. She just thanks whichever of Roe and Wade has made this possible for her.
She stands up, taking a deep breath. "I'm--" she starts to say to the receptionist but finds that once again, words are neither possible nor necessary. She smiles instead.
"It's okay, dear," the woman tells her, "this isn't the end of your life."