I dial the number on the back of the box with fingers stiff as those of a child’s doll. The screen requests my patience as it secures its destination signal, and a moment later a cheerful ping informs me my message has been received. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, and let my head fall back against the cool tile wall of my small bathing room. It’s official. I have an hour to make my decision.

I sit there staring at the little pink pill in the palm of my hand. It looks so small and perfect, like a pearl. Not that I’ve ever seen a real pearl of course. Those are for the girls who can afford to attend a top Academy, graduate with honors, actually make something of themselves. The ones who have whole strands of pearls to clutch at as they giggle and blush under the attention of young men at the end of term dances, instead of selling their coming of age ring to pay rent. The ones who when they makes mistakes like I have, can afford a white pill instead of a pink one.

Forty minutes now.

Had I been born to a different family, the pill I cradle in my hand now would be a pristine circle of white, rather than this sickeningly bright sphere of pink. It’s vibrant appearance is a cruel joke, as though a pretty color makes it any less toxic. As though beauty has ever done me any good.

Had I been born with timid eyes that stayed trained to the ground as they ought to of, instead of a fierce stare that demands to be met, things might’ve been different. Or if I’d been given a soft voice that never raised itself above a whisper, rather than a brash tone that refuses to be silenced, maybe it wouldn’t have turned out this way.

Yes, maybe if I hadn’t been born me I wouldn’t be sitting here on the cool tile floor trying to decide the fate of two lives. Mine, and that of the being inside me.

30 minutes.

I didn’t ask for this to happen, not that anyone would believe me. What with my low standing and high dreams, they’d say I was a disaster waiting to happen. They’d speak of how a young girl like me had no right to put herself in such a position. One in which she’d be surrounded by men in the workplace. They’d whisper that maybe my stiff blouse had dipped a bit too low, or my pencil skirt had risen a bit too high. They’d poke and prod at every little detail of my life, every moment of my history, and say it wasn’t just a coincidence that I ended up alone in the office with my superior that night. They’d announce it was no wonder that I’d risen so quickly through the ranks of my first job, since surely I couldn’t have gotten by on pure skill. My School scores be damned, I’d probably coerced the Headmaster into writing them.

No, one word and my life would become the raging scandal of a low class whore seeking to tarnish the reputation of a respected Workman in hopes of gaining a few payoffs.

I tilt my hand back and forth, watching the pill roll across my palm. I imagine leaning forward and letting it roll right off my hand and into the trash chute, never to be seen again. It’s tempting for a moment, but I do not lean forward. Instead, I consider what will happen should I choose to swallow the pill.

20 minutes.

Should I open my mouth and place the small pill on my tongue, my choice would be made. There would be no going back should I want to change my mind, only a few minutes of dreaded regret, then nothing.

That’s how the pink pill works thanks to the life guardians, as they so like to call themselves. The “defenders of the unborn”, “guardians of the innocent”... nightmares to women like me. Thanks to them I’ve got two choices. One: Let that bastard’s seed grow inside me, be fired from my job, and get sent to a facility for women who become pregnant without a license only to be left alone to care for the baby once I give birth. Or two: Swallow the pill before the seed ever grows. Prevent a child being born into a life of poverty and shame and hatred.

Were I holding a white pill, the choice would be much simpler.


As I’m holding a pink pill however, I must consider its implications. Should I swallow the pill, I’ll be dead within a matter of minutes. For the pill will not only stop the embryo from growing, but also my heart from beating.

The “guardians” must think themselves so clever; a life for a life, like my death will accomplish some sort of poetic justice.

Hypocrites, the lot of them.

If justice was really their goal, they’d be prosecuting the fathers as well. Instead, it’s the women who deal with all the consequences. Our society sees us as nothing more than empty vessels with no purpose in life until we are filled. The lives inside us not yet born are already deemed more important than our own.

10 minutes.

Should I choose to let the pill roll off my palm, stand up, face the collectors when they arrive and tell them I’ve changed my mind, they’ll search my little apartment. Scan it twice over to make sure I haven’t stashed the pill anywhere, and inform medical services of my condition. Within the next few hours I’ll be contacted twice. Once to inform me of my employment termination, and a second time to tell me what I should pack to take to the facility I’ll live in until I give birth. That’s the other thing with the pills, you only get one shot. If you decide later on in your pregnancy you want to change your mind, well you’re just out of luck. That’s why you’re sent to a facility, they want to watch you to make sure you don’t try to terminate your pregnancy by...other means.

The white pill is different. Somehow it only terminates the seed, and not the woman it resides in. There’s a science to that, but hell if they’d ever explain it to a woman. It’s a luxury only the most prominent of our society are awarded. Any woman with child is expected to retire immediately, but for those whose only heir is female, well it’s a bit inconvenient. Somehow it was fit into the bill that legalized the pink pill that there were certain exceptions that really should be taken into account, you know, for practicality. I’m sure it must have fit in nicely with all their bribes.

Should I swallow the pill, a group of collection workers will arrive here shortly to take my corpse and deliver it to the morgue. My cause of death will be marked as “willing”, and I can’t help but scoff at the absurdity of it all. Because as long as I sit here debating, I know I’ve already made my choice. And nothing about it is willing.

5 minutes.

Should I choose to give birth, maybe I’ll have a girl. Maybe she’ll grow up with a fierce stare that meets the eyes of everyone who challenges her, a quick wit that makes her more enemies than friends, and a strong voice that speaks out against the injustice of this world. Maybe she’ll grow up with dreams that soar higher than the birds in the sky, and ache for the day she makes them a reality. Maybe she’ll have a mother that dies young like mine did, and wonder what it would have been like to have a parent. Maybe she’ll be smart, and kind, and determined. Maybe someone will notice. Maybe she’ll follow her dreams high into the sky and forget what a long, terrifying fall there is below her. Maybe she’ll be snatched from the sky, and find herself sitting on the cool tile floor of her bathing room, cradling a pink pill in the palm of her hand. Maybe she’ll be her mother’s daughter.

2 minutes.

I can hear the boots of the collection team outside my apartment. They’re early.

Maybe she’ll stare at the pill in her hand and wonder the same thoughts I am now. Maybe she’ll raise the pink circle to her lips slowly, and take a deep breath as it hits her tongue. Maybe she’ll feel hot tears spill over her eyes, and burn down her cheeks as its sweet poison coats her mouth. Maybe she’ll double over in grief and rage at her hatred of her world, and maybe she’ll wish she’d done something more as voices echo through the corners of her mind and darkness floods her vision. Maybe with her last moments of consciousness she’d wish someone would have spoken out, stopped the choice from needing to be made; stopped this from being the only choice that could be made. Maybe she’d do a lot of things, like put her mother’s aching heart to rest. But she won’t.

A little pink pill has done it for her.