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Plan B: 5150 photo

I stared at myself in the mirror and rubbed my belly thinking about the morning after pill Edward made me swallow the day before. I remembered reading about the lack of effectiveness of Plan B and worried about being too late and too fat for it to work. A random woman approached me and asked how far along I was. I barked at her to mind her business.

My abdomen swelled from the amount of water I had drank to flush all the poison the nurses had given me.  The hospital gown I was wearing smelled of faint piss and bleach. The bustling white noise of the observation ward calmed my nerves until I thought about the crushing weight of a third trimester. Could I be pregnant while 5150’d?


Edward and I met like most exploited employees meet their better half—through work. His father was a partner to the non profit I work for and Edward was on the payroll as a ghost employee. He didn’t do shit but take an occasional photo while I pulled long hours and sleepless nights. Somehow, we started a conversation during a field event and exchanged contact information.

We were mostly touch and go from a distance, periodically exchanging social media likes and commenting on each other’s posts. He complained about the little time he spent at the non-profit. It took away attention and energy from his passions. Edward was a comedian. As a writer myself, we bonded over words and our mutual hatred towards his progenitor.

I left the nonprofit world several months after that last in-person exchange and entered the fashion industry while dancing on the side. I was ripe for change and needed to enjoy my youth. After a long night of partying one eventful Tuesday, my hungover eyes landed on a post for an open call for on set extras. Edward’s comedy troupe secured funding for a YouTube skit shot guerilla style and they needed as many people as possible to fill a bar.

I was game and the only one traveling from Jersey to Brooklyn. Therefore, I was the last to arrive on set. Still wearing the spandex black dress from the night before, I fluffed my curls and walked into the frame like the star of the show. I wasn’t but Edward was entranced. After filming, we made plans for a first date the following night.

We met at a bar in the Upper East Side. The conversation was great. He was funny and charming up until the moment he told me he had a fiance and they were in an open relationship. I thought, sure, that’s what they all say but went home with him anyway. Home for the night was a penthouse overlooking Central Park. I wasn’t too keen on having sex with a man with a future wife. Instead of intercourse, it was a night of edging and power plays. For the next few months we played cat and mouse. I found other lovers but kept Edward in the periphery.


I stopped taking the Wellbutrin cold turkey during the 2020 lockdown. Despite the fear mongering and daily roll calls of the death toll, I felt safe and happy. Something about the doom of pandemic made everyone that harbored a crush on me shoot their shot. I was receiving several DMs a day with declarations of love.

I’ll admit, I replied mostly out of boredom and a need for entertainment. There was only so much Tiger King I could stomach. All was well until one day when an ex that I had a tumultuous history with demanded I undo the hex I placed on his dick. The accusation sent me spiraling. My emotions were a mess and I started acting out. Secret parties. Clandestine dinners. And that pesky Edward popped up again. This time I couldn’t resist the sex.

We met for hookups at a store he owned. When we weren’t fucking, we were still connected. I couldn’t sleep so I cooked. And I shopped. And then I fucked Edward. In between, I would DM then text. Email then call. And shop, shop, shop. I made him buy me things. What things? Matching masks. Silly things. Subversive things. All in all, over a two day span, I sent 538 messages. He asked to meet at the store one night and after dumping the contents of my entire closet to make room for all the shit I bought in the last four weeks, I ran as quickly as I could to meet my paramore.

When I arrived, he sat me down at a table with a cup of water and a small white capsule and ordered me to drink it. Then he spoke: “my wife knows.” “Didn’t your wife always know?” I asked. He answered yes and no and explained that while he was permitted to step out, she didn’t want to be made aware and I had made myself impossible to ignore. It was over. Forever. 

And that finality coupled with the clear manic episode I was already experiencing sent me over the edge. Before I knew it, I was in an ambulance, then strapped to a gurney after two shots of Haldol weren’t enough to control me. Now I was staring at myself in a dirty psych ward mirror cradling a baby that never was with my mind echoing Uh oh, Uh oh, Uh oh, Oh no.

image: Dean Millien