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Don't Panic! Everything's Going to be Fine.

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We’re going to take you hostage.”

“What? You can’t do that,” I said.

“Don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I don’t feel fine.”  I could hardly stand straight but I didn’t want to show the three of them any weakness.

“That’s because you’re fighting us. Let it go.”

Why were there suddenly ten of them staring at me? Where did they come from?

“Look. We can do this the nice or the hard way. Your body is now under our control.” My head spun when another ten strutted by.

“Who are you anyway?” I asked.

“You know exactly who we are. Just do as we say and we’ll play nice for the next forty weeks.” Now, fifty of them said in a perfect chorus.

“What if I-”

“Uh uh. Shush.”

After some blissful weeks of peace, something was wrong.

Was it normal to drive in socks to the doctor? Why did I have a conniption fit when my husband surprised me with strawberries instead of chocolate truffles? How did I end up in a road rage incident when I only wanted to chase a naughty Chevrolet Suburban driver with my Mini Cooper?

This wasn’t me anymore. I was possessed.

Was there an exorcist for pregnancy hormones?

I asked them, “You said if I’m nice, you’d behave and I wouldn’t even know you were there.”

Hundred eyes scowled back. “We didn’t say that. Why are you so upset?  Everything looks fine.”

“Nothing is fine. Dammit! I’m not myself.”

As an answer, a wave of sickness made me run to the bathroom and ended the conversation. I shouldn’t have talked to them. The morning sickness turned into an evening sickness and at week 8 I had both.

At week 14, everything was gone. I was suspicious. Was this the calm before the storm? Did they leave? Did I earn a break?

The peace lasted for seven weeks.

I knew they were back when I was forced to eat an entire jar of Nutella. Every day.

This went too far. I didn’t want to end up like an overweight hippo.

“Stop the cravings. Immediately,” I demanded.

“We didn’t do anything. That’s all you.”

“I would never eat so much Nutella. You made me an addict.”

“Calm down. Eventually, everything will be fine.”

Two of them stepped forward and wanted to tap my shoulder. I wiped them off and stomped my feet on the floor.

“Absolutely nothing is fine. Give me back my body. NOW.”

They shrugged, “As you wish.”

A sharp stinging pain crept up from my groin to my abdomen. I fell on my knees and cried out.

“Stop! I’ll do whatever you want. I swear. But stop the pain,” I moaned.

They gave me another shot of mind numbing pain and then it stopped.

I exhaled.

“Let this be a warning. One more peep from you and you’re going to be sorry.”

At week 28, the turn-around came or in other words, I developed Stockholm syndrome.

I took advantage of being pregnant. The world bowed to me. I never had to stand in line. At Whole Foods I got extra samples. The last Nutella was handed over to me, unresisting. I was a great bully!

Week 39 came. My personal army of hormones empowered me by the second. I felt like superwoman. But fighting invisible dust puppies on midnight expeditions through my house got boring. Like superwoman, I needed some real criminals. The first chance came on my daily visits to my local supermarket. My chosen one was on Ecstasy and caught my attention when he smashed into the revolving doors and catapulted me in the seasonal fruit stand. I will only say he learned the hard way to never mess with a pregnant woman.

But when I stunned a stupefied burglar in our garage with only my hormone soaked aura, my kidnappers got frightened.

“Do you have a death wish?” They demanded to know.

“Shut up! I’m great. I’m in control.”

They looked at the young burglar. It was obvious that I scared the wits out of him. I was so proud.

“You’re not you anymore. You’re a monster.” My hijackers claimed. They watched the police taking the burglar and then turned back. “Ok, we’re releasing you now. We’re done.”

“What? You can’t do that!” I panicked.

They left without a proper good bye and my contractions started.

Withdrawal symptoms arrived a few days later. I don’t talk to them. They’re grumpy.

 

 

Frances Louise has a PhD in Computer Science from the University of

Zurich in Switzerland. Her current life in the Chicago suburbs with

her husband, toddler daughter, and baby son inspired her to write

fiction in diverse genres. Originally from Switzerland, she has been

living in the US for five years.

 

 

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