I was so not ready to be a father.
It was evident that I was far too irresponsible to care for another life. But even when I prayed to every god I knew of, my luck was about to run out. And so it did. My girlfriend was pregnant and I was apparently responsible for her and our unborn child. I liked to call it the demon life form. As I sucked in a large puff of smoke from my Darjum Kretek I could hear Mirabelle freaking out in the other room.

“Hayden! Where’s my purse?!”

I stared up at the blue ceiling of our apartment, “Where you left it last.”

I inhaled again and snuffed out the cigarette, deciding that I wanted some Ramen noodles in my system. Sighing, I walked into the little kitchen and tried to locate a box of Ramen and a pair of chopsticks. I can’t eat them any other way.

“I’m serious! Hayden, I need it!” Mirabelle whined, stomping into the kitchen.

I cringed when I saw her bulbous belly, “Check the closet.”

She rolled her eyes, the smudging layers of black eye shadow made her look like a raccoon, “Can you stop being a jerk for, like, ten seconds to help me find my purse? I need to go to the store.”

“And buy what?” I asked, pouring the noodles into a yellow bowl.

Mirabelle bit her lip, “Baby things.”

You mean stuff we don’t need. I threw the noodles into the microwave, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my of voice,

“God, can we not talk about Spawn.”

Yes, I couldn’t… wouldn’t refer to my kid as ‘she’ or ‘he’. Spawn was ruining my life, it didn’t deserve a name.

“Please Hayden, at least act like you care.”

“Cept I don’t.”

I ignored her, slashing open the noodle seasoning. Why did she think just because she was a pregnant freak she could harp on me all the time about not caring? I mean, I didn’t care. What was it going to take to get that through her thick head? Out of the corner of my eye I could see her searching frantically in the hall closet for that bag. She said it was from some store called Saks or something. Once again, I didn’t really care about what she spent her money on. She was freaking rich anyway. Smirking as I tucked my chopsticks into the back pocket of my jeans, I reached into a cabinet, retrieving a turquoise handbag. I tossed it into the hall,

“Found it.”

Mirabelle inspected the purse for any damage before slinging it over her shoulder, “You meany, you knew where it was!”

*Ding*

My noodles were done, “No I didn’t. It’s not my fault you abuse and lose your crap.”

Her pale face turned red, “This purse costs more than your miserable life! It’s Chanel!”

Like I even knew what Chanel was.

Stirring the noodles with one chopstick I tried to tune out the hormonal medusa fuming in the hallway.

“Are you even listening to me?!” she screeched.

I looked up from my important task, “Should I be?”

She closed her eyes, the azure enveloped in a mass of ebony powder, “Hayden, I think we have a communication problem.”

I sniffed the noodles and took an obnoxious slurp, “I thought you were going out.”

“My mom was right! She said this would happen! She said I should wait and let you talk when you wanted to! That you’d open up to me!” Mirabelle rambled.

Taking another sip of noodle broth, I answered, “Your mom is horrible at giving advice.”

“How can you just stand there and eat!” Mirabelle screamed, a blonde lock of hair falling from her messy pompadour, “That’s all you do Hayden! Get high and eat all our freaking food! You don’t care about me or our baby!”

I slammed the noodle bowl on the counter, the yellowish broth sloshed over the sides, “Ding, ding, ding! Give the girl a prize! You’re right; I don’t care about anything except myself!”

Mirabelle stood dumbfounded, “How can you be so awful?”

“Must’ve rubbed off from your mom.” I said, knowing this with strike a nerve with the pregnant predator.

“My mom’s not as bad as some people’s moms.” Mirabelle snapped.

I chuckled, mussing a hand through my shaggy auburn locks, “If my mom lit an orphanage on fire at Christmas Eve, she wouldn’t be as bad as your mom.”

Mirabelle sniffled, “You think I want this? To be a pregnant when I’m only freaking eighteen! You’re supposed to take care of me!”

“Since when!” I growled, “Since when can’t you take care of yourself? You seemed to be taking pretty good care of yourself when you “forgot” to take your birth control.”

This definitely wasn’t in the brochures for NYU. Leave your loving family in Australia, come to the states, study to be a great doctor, and get some whiny chick with abandonment issues knocked up. That should’ve been added into the campus tours. My eyes signaled in on Spawn. This was all its fault. I couldn’t wait until it was out; I wouldn’t have a guilty conscience about sending it off to be adopted. I had yet to tell Mirabelle of my plans.

“You really don’t want Ryan?”

“Huh?”

She stroked her swollen middle, making me want to heave all over the counter, “Ryan, our son.”

That was kind of a nice name. Ryan.

“The doctors say he might be born in December.” She almost laughed,

“You two might have the same birthday.”

“Cool.” I said under my breath, wishing I could eat that one stupid little word.

When I finally drew the confidence to look at her I felt both our cerulean eyes lock. I felt a shock jolt through my body,

“Aren’t you going somewhere?” I stated coldly.

Mirabelle glanced at her platinum tank watch, “Oh yeah, um… bye.”

She walked into the kitchen, pecking me on the cheek. Her belly touched my hip but I didn’t shrink away.

“Love you.” She whispered frigidly.

I poured the noodles into the sink, “Ditto.”