The towering peaks of the Utah mountains stretched into the vast expanse of the horizon, their rugged beauty capturing the imagination of all who gazed upon them. Overhead the sky is black; stars flicker but cast no light. The wind outside was no longer whistling as it had been a few days before; now, it was wailing. Among the mountain peaks soaring for the heavens, there was an air of isolation that permeated the small town at the foot of them. Here lived eighteen-year-old Marianne.

Nestled in her bedroom, Marianne’s eyes waged a rebellion against the encroaching night. She had been ill all week. Her palms laid on her abdomen as if she was cradling a vessel of untold stories. A knot developed in her stomach as she recognized the delay, the absence of something expected.

She walked to her bathroom and took out the white plastic stick. The room seemed to hold its breath as the two pink lines shrieked at her. An earthquake formed in her skin as she held the plastic stick in her hands -- her small, gentle hands.

Eighteen years of life, full of promise and possibility, now appointed to an uncertain destiny in a state where a woman’s right to choose was more of a myth than a reality. What will her parents think? How will she tell him — can she? Besides, he doesn’t even go to the same school. Trying to summon a mental image of his face, Marianne finds that she cannot; an image would initially form, clear and identifiable, but upon closer examination, the details start to drift apart, blur, and lose clarity.

Between the voices in her thoughts, whispering mentions of a clinic in the neighboring state floated. A place where women in similar situations to hers find their salvation — their voice. As the idea started to take hold, Marianne's heart danced against her ribs, her pulse pounding with resolve. The car keys on the counter spoke to her like a promise of liberty as they glinted in the lamplight. The distant coastlines of California loomed large in her imagination as she made her way to the kitchen..

Marianne was about to reach for the keys, her mother, Joanna, had awakened and walked in just then, blocking her path. Her graying hair was pulled back tightly, casting a stern shadow on her features that gave notice to the deep wrinkles etched on her face from years of worry. Spotting the white plastic stick left on the kitchen counter, a grim realization dawned on her.

“Marianne, where do you think you’re going?” Joanna asked. The truth was a trembling bird in her throat. A silent tension suspended between them, a fragile thread threatening to snap at any moment.

“I need to get out of here, Ma.” She raked her bottom lip with her teeth. The faint ticking of the antique red clock on the mantel measured the heartbeat of the room. Joanna crossed her arms and looked back at the white plastic stick as a sour and acidic whiff of air traveled to her nose from her daughter’s bathroom. With Marianne’s small, gentle fingertips, she softly painted the outline of her stomach in an appeal for her mother's compassion.

“You know how things work around here: life begins at conception,” Joanna declared.

“But Ma, this is my body, my life. Shouldn’t I have the right to make decisions about my own future?” The clock’s ticks echoed like tiny footsteps. 

“It’s not just about you. It’s about the life growing inside of you,” Joanna snapped. Her burning eyes looked into Marianne’s eyes, which were searching for a glimmer of support. Yet Joanna maintained a firm expression and stood between Marianne and the keys.

Joanna grabbed control of the keys from the counter; they were now in her hands. She hurled the keys across the kitchen, far far away from Marianne’s reach. The keys struck the unyielding wall. Metal fragments scattered across the floor. Once whole, now fractured. Shattered. Broken. Jagged edges. The smashed pieces lay in front of her. Was there any way out now?

Joanna exited the room, but Marianne stayed. Anchored. Eyes locked at the broken keys. A strong gaze. She pretended they could be fixed. A feeble deception. But she couldn’t mend them. Nobody could. It was just reality. No way out. Marianne, trapped in Utah.

Marianne retreated to her bed. The walls closed in around her. They were witnesses to her shattered hopes, enclosing her in a cage. Her bedroom ceiling looked down at her. Marianne’s thoughts whispered to her, a chorus of doubts and uncertainties... California was miles and miles away. No car. No money. No parent signature. All of which made her hopeless plan impossible. 

After a fitful slumber, Marianne's eyelids fluttered open, swollen from the night before. She tried to open her door, but it was locked from the outside. Behind that door, the world had moved on. The sheets clung to her like chains.

The dimensions of the environment around her shudder in and out, like someone had picked up the world and shaken it, hard. Her inner landscape was an empty canvas, devoid of brushstrokes or vibrant hues. When she opened the window, the immovable mountains perched over, like prison walls controlled by the government. Outside, the bleaming Utah sun scorching the hills seemed to mirror the weight pressing down on eighteen-year old Mariane’s shoulders.