POPULATION chap. 9

CHAPTER 9

Dear mother,

I'm really scared—scared for my life. I don't think I've ever been this anxious in all the years I've been alive. Well, that's a lie. But it's pretty close to being a first. Remember when I first wrote to you about the outbreak? That was almost seven months ago. I'm still alive, thank goodness. I'm here with seven others now. They're brave people, mom. I admire all of them, though I have to admit that some of them have big problems that I would never care to tackle on my own. I don't want to sound rude, but one of them has officially made my life a whole lot more stressful that it needs to be right now. Just so you know, watch over me whenever I'm close to the tall one with black hair and a quick temper.

I'm ashamed to be telling you this, but I believe that I could fit your role very easily, now. How, you ask? It's a dumb answer. I could have never done it without Dr. Leah. Of course, it was my choice to go along with it, but I never should have made that resolve. The truth is, I've been a little guinea pig to a sex change drug—it was supposed to be given to women, but I took it instead. Apparently I passed out and started having a seizure, but I don't remember anything. The only thing I remember is waking up on a bed with someone prodding my stomach. It tickled! But anyway, now I'm a girl…from the waist down. It's a peculiar thing, so don't think that you're the only one who looks at it that way. I'm still not used to the change myself.

And yet another thing I'm not used to…well, you were watching over me that night, right? I hope you were—I want you to keep a watchful eye on Toby while he's anywhere near me. Especially in bed…not that I'll ever climb in bed with him ever again. This is all leading up to the reason why I'm so scared. Pardon me, but I've had to take three breaks while writing this letter because I had to throw up. I'm not sick, mom, so don't worry about that. Nothing's really wrong with me at all, even though I could say otherwise. I don't really know how to tell you this, but I'm kind of…sort of…pregnant. Don't freak out, mom! I assure you I'm more scared than you are! I'm actually crying right now, if you can see it from up there. Even though I did agree to it earlier, I'm having second thoughts about the whole thing. Did you have a hard time with me? Did I move around a lot? Did I give you morning sickness? How big did you get? Never mind, I've seen pictures. Will I get that big? I know you said that you didn't get as big compared to some people, but that's still considered big to me! I must've weighed at least seven pounds—you never told me how much I weighed or how tiny my footprints were. Was I cute? That's a dumb question—of course I was. I still am ☺. I'm really concerned, though. I noticed yesterday that I've gained weight. It's not really noticeable to other people, but I know all about it since it's my own body. I'm having more trouble fitting into pants already. I even measured myself this morning. I've gained enough weight to add seven centimeters to my waist. There's a little bump. Funny how much the number seven is appearing in this letter—just now I looked at the clock and it's seven o'clock.

Can I talk to you about Toby? I haven't in a while. My opinion of him changes a lot. At first I thought he was just a rude, angry person who didn't know how to control himself. He has a pretty bad temper. But I guess that's okay. I think it's not his fault. He really tried to control it, but he just can't. I feel bad for him sometimes, mom. I can see it in his eyes that he wants to change. He's like a little boy, mom, like he's really bad at hiding any emotion. The only thing I haven't seen him do is cry. I'm starting to wonder if he ever does. Maybe he's the kind of person who cries in silence alone somewhere. That makes me sad. I hope he's not sad. Or angry. Actually, maybe he's angry, but it would be good if he wasn't sad, too. He's the father, by the way. Please watch over me. I'll need all the help I can get.

I miss you a lot. I know I write this in every letter, but I miss you so much. I haven't seen your face for more than a decade and it's bringing me down even more that usual. I'm under a lot of stress, and not having you here makes me want to crawl into a hole and hide away. Excuse me for sounding so depressing, but there's really no other way for me to say it. After you left, father just went crazy, and my life turned upside-down. Did I ever tell you about my scar? I have the number eleven on my left breast muscle. That's from the gay brothel prostitutes. They got jealous of me, or something. I don't exactly know why they did it, but whatever the reason, I didn't give them what they wanted. I didn't scream or cry, just writhed around and I think my breathing got faster by a lot, too. Was I strong? Or was I just a fool? Speaking of me being a fool, I've not left my room very much recently. I don't really feel like letting the others see me. The only people I'm comfortable around are Dr. Leah and Jeb.

Jeb has been really supportive of me—I'm kind of surprised. Before my whole baby ordeal, I found it difficult to read that boy's emotions. It was like he was putting up a wall, or something. He was either really happy, or really sad. Now I'm realizing that he's misunderstood. He has a talent that sets him apart from others, and I guess he just doesn't know how to compare himself to them. He's an artist, mom. He paints. His landscapes are absolutely breathtaking. I swear I'm falling in love with his sunset scenes—they make me want to fall to my knees, they're so stunningly beautiful. I've never seen such vibrant orange color in any professional painting. I actually talked to him the other day, about his paintings. He says that he wanted to be a professional landscape painter and that he was going to take lots of art courses in college. He never quite got into the full swing of things, though. The outbreak started wreaking havoc in the winter of his freshman year. He's disappointed, he says, but he's also glad that he has a group of people that he can share his newer paintings with. He likes getting feedback and constructive criticism, though most of the time no one really had anything remotely constructive to say about it. Claude is always left speechless. I always end up saying something, but it takes me a while to think of something good.

I'm still crying, mom. I've been crying since I told you earlier in this same letter. Everything hurts. My stomach is killing me right now, and I'm starting to feel a headache coming on. I'm thinking I might take a shower and go straight to bed. I hate this. I hate this, mom. I wish I could just start over. I don't want to be pregnant, not at age seventeen. I'm far too young for children! Oh, why did I agree to this? Please help me through this, mom. I need all the support I can get. It really helps to know that you love me and watch over me. I know I've aid this a lot, but that means you're important to me, so be happy, mom. Be happy.

Love,

Channie