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crricket! crricket! crricket!

rribbitt! rribbitt! rribbitt!

Merrique de Voison quietly gazed at the dark, seemingly endless lake, watching the moonlight shimmer across the obsidian surface. The gentle spring breeze swept over her, lifting her black silken locks and taking some tears away with its lofty pull. The sounds of the nocturnal frogs and crickets that inhabited the lake were carried along with it, just as so many other things in Merrique's young life had been carried away just as quickly.

Next to her chiffon clad body lay an ancient looking dagger with a hilt of pure white gold encrusted with sapphires, emeralds, and opals. It had been in the de Voison family for countless generations, ever since one of the sons had married one of the distant cousins of the royal family, a really meaningless relationship if one thought about it. About as meaningless a relationship as hers with Jacques du Lac had been.

Jacques, the love of her life, the one man she had given herself freely over to. How stupid of her, how crazy. When would the day come when women stopped giving themselves over to men like that? And now here she was, twenty-three years old, gorgeous enough to make Claudia, Naomi, and Cindy jealous, with a baby growing in her womb. A baby that would put an end to her career as a cabaret dancer in Moondreams, the smoky little New Orleans club she danced at to earn enough money to put her through college. She had met Jacques there, a handsome twenty-eight year old who seemed so out of place in that sleazy little joint. He seemed so sweet and kind and innocent. Didn't they all seem like that? But no, Jacques had to be different. He had to be truly sweet and kind and caring. And then, after one night of passion, he had to move on. He had to leave Merrique. That wasn't enough though. He had to die on her. He had to go ahead and get killed by some deranged prostitute who exacted revenge on every man who she slept with, out of the spite she had felt for the grandfather, stepbrother, and brother-in-law who had put her through sexual abuse throughout her early years.

Women. Always taken advantage of. Always abused and hurt and tortured. Where did the phrase "treated like a lady" even come from? No woman was ever treated like an actual lady. Not unless you lived in a world of glass slippers, poisoned apples and cursed spindles. And even there the women went through some degree of torture. Now, it seemed, was Merrique's turn. She didn't want this child. But everyone else she knew did. Her dad, her mom, her grandparents, her whole extended family. Heck, even the other dancers at Moonbeam wanted Merrique to have the baby, especially Claudette Cartier, who desperately wanted to be the next Moondream Diva like Merrique. Merrique wasn't about to let that happen. Hell no, nothing was going to stop her from getting that good pay. Sure there were nights that she had to spend with some sleazy drug-dealing sewer scum, but then everyone has their moments. Anything for an education, right? And this thing growing inside of her was going to steal all that away from her. No way in heaven, hell, or earth was that ever actually going to happen. Not if she had a say in it.

Disgusted and upset, Merrique slid out of her sage colored chiffon dress and let the moonlight become her cloth as she slowly walked into the tiny lake. The water was icy cold yet cleansing. Maybe the water would take this baby away from her. Maybe it would freeze the baby and the baby would die. Maybe Merrique would slip over something in the lake and have a miscarriage. Anything.

Life wasn't always that fair though, now was it? She knew that well enough by now.

The young woman treaded the water, swimming to the middle of the lake, past frogs who would never turn into princes, past lily pads that would never shelter her from pain, past fish who didn't have to worry about a good education. Her black hair gleamed under the moonlight, and her violet eyes carried a seemingly preternatural gleam in them. Merrique's ivory skin glowed, a pearl trapped in a heap of ashes, dust, and dung, unable to find it's way out onto the bed of velvet, satin, and chiffon.

As she swam, Merrique knew one thing. She had to abort the child. If she wanted to come up in life, she had to abort the child. Her parents wouldn't allow her. Dr. Fontaine, who had been bribed by Mr. de Voison, wouldn't let her abort the child. Dr. Fontaine had, in turn, persuaded all of New Orleans' doctors to go against Merrique. She was trapped, stuck with nowhere to run. Having a baby meant losing her figure. Losing her figure, even if for a very short time, meant losing her job, which meant losing a steady salary, which meant buh-bye meaningful career. That chain of possible events just totally put her mind off ever having any children. That's why adoption agencies and stepmotherhood existed, for women who didn't want to put themselves through the torture that is giving birth, no matter how joyous and divine the end product was.

Merrique knew she could afford an abortion, she just couldn't afford the plane ticket to get her to a doctor who was willing to help her. Knowing Dr. Fontaine's influence, England was probably Merrique's best bet to go to for an abortion. Maybe California. She knew how crazy that sounded, but in the medical world Dr. Henri Fontaine was as powerful as a lion in the midst of a troupe of lionesses. That and, okay, her imagination had always been a little overactive. But that's beside the point.

Merrique figured she only had one option left. The dagger.

She smiled grimly to herself as she made her way back to her dress and dagger. She could probably cut herself somewhere and get the baby taken out, rush to a hospital and get sewn up again. She'd never paid attention in biology, but that was the gist of having an abortion, wasn't it? Besides, many women throughout the centuries had had illegal abortions. How hard could it possibly be?

Merrique walked out of the water, her hips lightly swaying, goosebumps appearing on her flesh as she picked up the dagger. This was it. This was the moment she had been waiting for. The death of the baby. The birth of her freedom. Merrique licked her full, wet lips in anticipation as the blade gently touched her bellybutton.

The water. The water is a better place to do this.

Half listening to her subconscious, Merrique glided back through the lake until the water just covered her milky breasts. Then, she thrust the dagger into her, into the group of cells that was the fetus. As rich, thick blood began to mix with the murky lake water, surrounding her like an ethereal pearl in a bed of dark rubies, Merrique realized her mistake.

This wasn't abortion. This was suicide.