Modernism Creative writing

She awoke with an ache in her neck and the bitter taste of yesterday on her tongue. It was a thursday. Tuesdays had tended been friendly to her, thursdays however had never treated her kindly. One of her happiest tuesdays had been near a year before this morning; where after realising that her time of the month hadn’t occurred for over one, it was tested and became apparent that she was pregnant. How or why the protection did not function was a mystery to her, for in those days she had always been rather meticulous with such matters. When and with whom the conception had occurred, however, was clear - the father was an accountant named George Peterson, and he was her partner - Bridget’s partner. Though the situation had been unexpected; the prospect of them living together and raising a child had had her heart buoyant and her mind racing over how to inform him of their new treasure. She had told him on the thursday and his reaction to the information had also been unexpected, although this unanticipated response did not bring her any happiness. George had not been elated by the idea of being a father, and after hearing her news had handed Bridget the sum suitable for an abortion without missing a beat. Without asking her how she felt or even articulating why the potential child ought to be disposed of , his decision was made final. Her partner had called his doctor and booked an appointment within 10 minutes, all the while Bridget had been still, staring fixedly at the notes in her hands as the world disintegrated before her. Three weeks from then, on another thursday, the hope in her body was extracted and terminated. From The Thursday onward she was changed. Since then, she was forever tired and forever grieving the unreached. It was a grief that had her hollow but heavy, so that any attempt of activity would require the effort comparable to that of an worm passing through a concrete brick - and whether or not she made any progress could not