Read by Aren Devlin (35 minutes into podcast, here)
15 September 2017. I was 12. Most of my friends at school, some of my frenemies too, had started their period over the summer. The holidays hadn't just granted new tans and stories of holiday boyfriends. But it hadn’t blessed me.
One thing led to another, insecurities building on each other, and before long I was convinced I hadn’t started yet because I was to be the next virgin mother.
I told my mother about this once. Okay, I told her about it several times. All right, many times. When she got bored with me I checked the internet.
Turned out I wasn't pregnant.
10 January 2018. 15 February 2018. 17 March 2018. My period hadn't come back since my first one. I convinced myself this wasn't “textbook irregularity” like the school nurse had explained when she also told us about condoms and UTIs.
Instead, I dedicated a significant amount of time to worrying over whether I had somehow Done It without realising. Had I shared a towel with a boy? Or was it horseback riding that could do it too? Or was that just hymens?
When I asked the school nurse about it, she said, “Aren't you the girl who thought you were the new Virgin Mary?”
17 December 2019. I had just turned 15. At my best friend's Christmas party, I kissed a boy for the first time. After, sitting amongst the party wreckage of lametta strands and discarded paper cups of cold mulled grape juice, I did an internet search on whether you can get pregnant from a kiss.
Turns out you can! But the circumstances have to be rather specific. Thank you, Frankie's parents, for not having parental controls on your Wi-Fi.
No, the irony that I thought I was pregnant around the time of Jesus's birthday wasn't lost on me.
20 May 2021. I was 17. It was spring. The sun was shining. I kissed a girl for the first time. It was great.
But, I asked the internet again here too. Turns out pregnancy from a kiss with a girl is pretty impossible.
20 September 2022. University Fresher's Week. Coming from an all girl's school it was a bit of a shock. Shared bathrooms and so many parties and so many bodies. Lots of new experiences and yes, lots of internet searches.
15 November 2022. 2 February 2023. 21 May 2023. 7 August 2023. 12 October 2023. 9 December 2023. 17 March 2024 and 2 June 2024. University first times have a lot to answer for. One time, even though my boyfriend and I used protection and I was on the pill, I also took the morning-after pill and three pregnancy tests.
I was not pregnant.
13 August 2024. I was 23. My new boyfriend, Cole, was lovely. He laughed at my old stories of pregnancy tests and internet searches. My friends had teased some sense into me, and I could laugh at my old idiosyncrasies. I was older! Wiser! More aware!
Cole was a glorious kisser. He wanted to take things slow. We were exclusive before we went any further. When we finally took our relationship to the next level he was, how shall I put it, unusual in his nether regions.
“I'm a long way from home,” he offered by way of explanation.
It was fun, but my internet searching started again. I typed in “Can I get pregnant from aliens” and was funnelled down a virtual rabbit hole.
3 December 2024. Cole was taken into custody by men and women in dark suits and aviators (turns out they do keep tabs on our search histories!).
In worrying I returned to my old ways.
5 January 2025. The besuited people sent a counsellor to speak to me about my experiences. I kept as much to myself as I could. Wasn't going to make that mistake. But as they left, they handed me their card, saying, “If anything changes,” they gestured towards me, or I thought, my midsection, “let us know.”
I did a pregnancy test.
It was negative.
20 January 2025. Turned out there were some strange things happening in my body. I definitely felt something. I couldn't stop crying. I wanted to sleep all day. I threw up a few times. Nothing showed up on pregnancy tests. The GP asked me whether anything had changed in my life recently to bring on a depressive episode.
2 March 2025. My older sister announced she was pregnant. Her, my mother and my sister-in-law then exchanged countless stories on the nesting instinct and exhaustion and all sorts. I did another pregnancy test.
Ok, four.
17 April 2025. No news from the people in suits. The counsellor wouldn't return my calls after I left increasingly expletive-ridden voicemails. I tried dating on various apps to take my mind off things. The people I met were, at best, disappointing. And despite not going all the way, I still did pregnancy tests.
10 June 2025. Things really started to change. My skin got super-sensitive. I was hungry all the time. I always wanted to tidy. I must have done dozens, if not hundreds, of pregnancy tests by this point. Every time I saw my older sister she mentioned a symptom that I was actually experiencing. Metallic mouth taste? Check. Constantly needing to wee? Yep. Can't sleep properly? Me too!
In the middle of the night, after listing all the reasons I missed Cole to myself, I found the counsellor's card again and left a message, this time being honest and sincere about what I was feeling. I hardly swore when asking what they'd done with Cole.
12 June 2025. Well, turns out they thought I was pregnant too! Good news - I got to be with Cole again. Bad news - we were separated by thick perspex, and people in white coats kept poking me and frowning. Cole was sympathetic but wouldn't answer any of my questions. He said they were listening. Same reason he couldn't tell me how he was planning to get us out.
I got my period. But I still wished I could type “can you get your period if you're pregnant but with only a few random symptoms and you last had sex with your alien boyfriend more than six months ago”.
Actually, no, I probably wouldn't have searched that, not after what happened to Cole last time.
All right, maybe I would. But I would have done it in incognito mode.
25 June 2025. Well, the escape with Cole was all terribly exciting! He really had planned well. As we walked away from the “borrowed” car, he looked at me with fondness and affection. He put his hand against my belly and whispered some words I didn't understand. Something moved within me, and it wasn't just desire.
28 June 2025. Met the boyfriend's parents for the first time. They had picked us up and taken us back to theirs, “Don't worry, they can't get to you here.” Their house was nice, if a little isolated.
They gave me all my favourite foods and encouraged me to rest and relax. They also gave me multivitamins.
I still took my contraceptive pill. Didn't have many left though. I wondered what I would do when I ran out. Could I call my GP? Cole couldn't use a condom.
30 June 2025. Ordered a dozen pregnancy tests from brands I hadn't tried yet. It took some hunting.
His parents kept looking at me with such hope, that I knew something was up. Also, my symptoms from before were lurking and getting worse. My mouth tasted like pondweed.
10 July 2025. My symptoms reached fever pitch. I couldn't sleep. My tidying couldn't be stopped. Cole's dad must have got annoyed at my reorganisation of their kitchen cupboards, as he gave me free rein of their garage.
There was so much old junk in there. Like a beaten-up car that didn't have wheels (though, to be honest, I'm not sure it ever did have wheels, as it had no gaps or axles), bits of scrap metal and metal sheeting and gigantic knots of cables.
I got left alone in there, and had plenty of time to think about my symptoms and compulsions and all my life choices.
I started to see order in the chaos of scrap. I began to build.
3 August 2025. As I stood before the majestic thing I had created, I felt a glorious wonder and pride that must be what giving birth feels like. It shone in the light. I had used the old beaten up not-car as the frame, and woven cables and soldered bits of extra metal until it looked like an exotic race car had had a baby with a yacht.
Cole looked at me with amazement and pride. And desire.
Of course we did it. We did it inside the car-yacht. It was a lot bigger on the inside. Still don't know how I did that. I ran out of my pills yesterday. For the first time, I didn't care.
20 August 2025. Looking down on my planet from above, Cole at my side and his parents at the controls, everything felt more certain and also more small. The stars were a smear of glitter beyond the windows. He took my hand. I met his eyes and he smiled. I knew I was pregnant this time. Turned out his species have this nesting instinct before baby creation, to make sure the family can get home.
I squeezed his hand. The universe was within my grasp.
(c) JM Cyrus, 2024
As an actor, Aren Devlin (left) has appeared in a variety of productions which include Ponies (LAByrinth Theater Company), The Vagina Monologues & This is the Night Mail. Aren's literary work has featured on stage & screen. Her play Gleam debuted at London's Soho Theatre & her short films, most notably Repercussions & Typical, have been screened at international film festivals around the world. Currently, Aren is developing her first TV pilot.
JM Cyrus writes speculative fiction. With a BA in Classical Studies, & an MA in Reception Theory, she enjoys finding new worlds & looking at how she found them. She has had work published in magazines, anthologies & online. For a full list see her website /jmcyrus.carrd.co
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