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You're in the high school bathroom when you find out you're going to be a father.
Christina looks up at you expectantly, arms crossed over her chest. "Well?" she snarls. "Are you gonna fuckin' say something, Billy?"
Eventually, once you can feel your legs again, you speak.
"How the fuck are you pregnant?"
Christina rolls her eyes. "You came inside me while we were watching Seinfeld is my best fuckin' guess," she mutters, unbuttonning her flannel and tying it around her waist.
You shake your head. "I mean, I fuckin' knew that , but when– how–"
"Dammit, Billy, this is serious!" Christina hisses. "We're like, eighteen, my parents are gonna have my ass, I'm gonna look like a whale up on stage when we graduate, oh, and you're a serial fucking killer."
"Keep your voice down," you hiss. "And you don't have to go to graduation if you don't want. They let my f–"
"That's not the fuckin' point. The point is, I'm pregnant. Can we focus on that for longer than half a millisecond?"
Christina looks up at you with big, hopeless eyes, pleading with you for an answer. It's a sharp contrast from her merciless, razor-like tongue. Her rare show of vulnerability makes you falter, pull her into a warm embrace.
"Are you gonna get rid of it?" you whisper into dark, impossibly soft hair. You breathe in the scent of her shampoo, musky and spicy yet sweet. She buries her face in your neck and lets out a deep sigh.
"No, I wanna keep it," she whispers, kissing the spot behind your ear she knows is most sensitive from all the late nights spent together.
You groan, hold her tighter. Christina is the only thing you've never wanted to hurt, the only thing that you want to protect.
Christina has kept her mouth shut. She's licked the blood off your hands, soothed your terror of being caught, held you as you cried over your mother, enabled you, placated you, lied for you– the only thing she hasn't done is killed for you.
Surely, that will come soon. You can see the bloodlust in Christina's eyes.
"I'm not gonna be like my mom, Chris," you promise, sliding a hand down to cradle her stomach. She leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering shut.
"You'll stick around? No matter what?" You can hear the tears, the mistrust in her voice, and now you know what a knife to the gut feels like.
Silently, you kiss Christina's forehead. "Forever and always, babe," you say.
You know you'll never get caught. You've got so much to lose now.
You hope the kid is everything like you, nothing like you.
"Should we think about names?" you say, only half kidding as you smile. "Billy Jr. for a boy?"
You thumbs brush away Christina's tears, and she grins wide. "Fuck no," she laughs.
"How about Stu Jr?"
"I'm not naming my baby after that doofus."
"Maybe Sidney for a girl? Better yet, Maureen."
Christina glares, red painted mouth pursed. "You're not funny."
You think you're fuckin' hilarious, but you don't offer a retort. "How about Samantha? It's…cute and girly and shit," you say.
Christina sneers. " No fucking way. I wanna name my baby something badass."
You smirk. "Rachel?"
"Rachel is not badass."
You and Christina laugh and smile, and for the first time in fucking years, you are happy. You're going to be a father, and Christina is going to be a mother, and you'll finally have the only thing you've ever wanted: a family.
Your baby is the last thing you think about before the bullet is buried in your brain.