Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Rachel’ Category


Thanks to my good friend Karen for this watercolour. Click here view her deviantART page.


Until this year, I never really pictured myself as some kid’s dad. How the hell was I supposed to take care of someone when I couldn’t even take care of myself?

Rachel called me at regular intervals, telling me that I’d cursed her with some baby and some disease. I’d sit there, listening her to cry and tell me how her life was over and how much of an irresponsible dick I was. “DON’T DENY ANY OF THIS, DEAN. YOU’RE TAKING FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR MY PREGNANCY WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.”

Then she asked me for money, and then more money, and then more money. In the end I stopped answering her calls.

Everything went well for about a week until I made the mistake of reading one of her messages. It said this: I’M KILLING MYSELF AND I’M KILLING THE BABY.

I sped to her place and rushed inside to find a group of thirty-something-year-olds watching Avatar on Blu-ray. They all looked up at me with suspicious looks on their faces.

“She’s in her room,” one of them said to me.

“Good luck, mate,” someone else said.

I nodded at the thirty-somethings before opening the door. Rachel was in there, sitting on her table with an angry expression on her face, texting someone. There were a few opened bottles of wine next to her bed. She was wearing jeans and she was completely topless. I’d forgotten how big her breasts were.

She put her phone down and looked up at me. “Hi, Dean.”

“Where the hell’s your top? Are you high?”

“Where’s my money? You promised you’d send me money.”

“I didn’t promise you shit,” I said. “And I thought you were killing yourself. All you’re doing is texting and being topless.”

She picked something up and threw it at me. “You did this to me! You gave me this baby! You have to fucking take responsibility.”

“I did this to you?” I couldn’t believe her. “From what I recall, we both had sex with each other!”





“You piece of shit, you better not get cheap on me and not pay for this!” She kept crying. I was about to give in and comfort her until I realised something: the only things that looked big on her upper body were her breasts. Her stomach was almost flat.

“You’re not pregnant!”

For a moment, her wailing stopped. “So what if I’m not?”


She cried harder and threw even more things at me. I swore and threw a few things back at her. Things were breaking all over the place.

A lady walked in. “What’s going on in here?”

I pointed at Rachel. “She’s not pregnant!”

The lady laughed and walked back out.

“You owe me a thousand bucks, Rachel.”

“No I don’t. Don’t you see I’m the victim here?”

“Fuck you,” I said, and left it at that. I looked at Rachel for what I hoped would be my last time and walked out of her room, then out of her house. Nobody followed me.

On the drive home I thought: this actually isn’t the worst situation I’d ever been in.


Jude and I were invited to a friend’s Chinese wedding and the first thing I made was a mistake: I didn’t bring any money to give to the new couple. I didn’t even bring an impressive gift. I brought a box of two small wooden dolls I’d made for Eva once that I’d never ended up giving, two little dolls holding each other’s hands. In each other’s pockets were two short stories that you needed to squint to read.

“You idiot, you’re also supposed to bring money to help cover the expenses. I brought three hundred bucks.”

“Well I don’t have three hundred bucks,” I said.

Jude sighed and pulled a hundred out of his present and gave it to me. “Put this shit inside my spare red envelope thing.” He pulled out a scrunched envelope from his pocket. It was thin and red and there were golden characters written all over it. I did what he said. I was drunk.

The party was grand. It was in a large ballroom in a large hotel and there were about two hundred, very well dressed attendees. Food kept coming, glorious food, food prepared in ways I’d never imagined. As we ate, various photos of the couple were projected onto one of the walls. They weren’t just normal photos, either. They were professional, dramaticised photos of the couple taken all over the place: there was one of them leaping for joy in a park, there was a photo taken of them staring into each other’s eyes in front of a waterfall, there was a photo of the groom romantically carrying our friend while standing out of a bed of sunflowers, there was a photo of our friend happily being piggybacked across King George Square. A large, expensive-looking book of all these photos was also available for everyone to look at in front of the ballroom. And then the groom sang a song, and then there were games, and then everyone had to toast the new couple: everyone raised their wine glasses towards them and yelled “AHHH” nonstop for what felt like five minutes. Everything was hazy, so I drank even more.

It was a good evening until I bumped into the half-Hungarian something girl I met from Melbourne (blog post here).  She sort of smiled. “I’m so glad I bumped into you again. This must be a sign.” We talked and joked around for a while until she grabbed my arm and brought me somewhere.

“Remember in Melbourne when we, you know, you know?”

I laughed. “No I don’t know.”

“You do, you wanker. When I asked you if you had a… condom… and you said you didn’t, and we still…”

In that instant I suddenly stopped being drunk. “Why? Hang on, what’s your name again?”

“I’m Rachel, and you better remember it because,” she looked left and right before hissing: “I’m pregnant.”

“Just wait.” I looked at her. “Now just wait. Just… wait.”

This was when she cried. “And I have an STD. You gave me an STD. You’ve ruined my fucking life!”