The Increase of Pressure

Charlotte

The news that I was pregnant with twins should have been a relief, a victory after everything I had endured. But instead, it brought with it a new wave of demands and pressures that turned my life in the mansion into a true hell. The control Richard and Marta already had over me intensified to an almost unbearable level, and I felt like every breath I took was being monitored, every movement scrutinized with relentless judgment.

The days began to blur into a repetitive and oppressive routine. I woke up every day at dawn, not by my own biological clock, but by Marta’s insistent and constant intervention. She made sure that I was taking the vitamins and supplements prescribed by the doctors early in the morning, before the sun even had a chance to warm the house. Every pill was observed by her watchful eyes, as if she could guarantee, with her very presence, that the desired effect would be achieved.

After that, it was time for the morning exercises. Marta had hired a physical therapist specifically to guide me through a routine of stretches and light exercises, all carefully chosen to promote a healthy pregnancy. The physical therapist was a middle-aged woman with a severe, humorless face. Her presence was as oppressive as Marta's, and there was no empathy in her gestures or words. Every movement I made was corrected, every effort monitored, as if my body were a machine that needed to be precisely calibrated to function perfectly.

"You need to maintain the correct posture, Charlotte," the physical therapist would say as she adjusted my back during a stretch. "This is crucial for the babies' development."

Her words, though professionally delivered, sounded like a constant reprimand. I tried to follow her instructions to the letter, but the pressure to do everything right, to make no mistakes, was overwhelming. I felt my own humanity being stripped away, piece by piece, until I was just a machine designed to carry these children.

After the exercises, Marta would lead me to the dining room, where a carefully prepared breakfast awaited me. Every meal was meticulously planned, with precise portions of proteins, vitamins, and minerals. There was a strict diet plan that had to be followed without fail. The fresh orange juice, the perfectly boiled eggs, the slices of whole grain bread... everything was calculated to nourish my body in the most efficient way possible.

"You must eat everything, Charlotte," Marta insisted, sitting beside me, watching every bite. "The babies' health depends on it."

Food, which could have been a pleasure, became a burdensome task. I ate because I was forced to, because I knew that any refusal or hesitation would be seen as a threat to the health of the twins. I no longer had any will of my own, no appetite for anything that wasn’t imposed. It was as if I were being force-fed, not with food, but with the incessant pressure to fulfill my role.

The following hours were filled with medical consultations and visits from specialists, all with the same goal: to ensure the pregnancy progressed without issues. Each consultation was another round of questions, exams, and recommendations. I was constantly being evaluated, as if every result was a direct reflection of my competence as a future mother.

"Hormone levels are good," a doctor would comment while noting something in his book. "Keep following the instructions, and everything should go well."

These words, though reassuring for any other pregnant woman, were for me a confirmation that I was being measured and judged at every step. There was no room for error, no room to relax. The pressure on me was constant, as if any deviation, however small, could jeopardize everything.

Afternoons were spent in mandatory rest. Marta insisted that I rest as much as possible, ensuring that I was always comfortable but also completely isolated. My room, though luxurious, began to feel more like a cell. The heavy curtains blocked out the sunlight, creating a constant gloom. The silence was deep, interrupted only by the distant ticking of a clock or the muffled sound of Marta’s footsteps, who patrolled the mansion like a vigilant guardian.

"You need to sleep, Charlotte," Marta would say, entering the room to check if I was resting properly. "Rest is essential for the babies' development."

But sleep didn’t come easily. My mind was always active, always worried about what was to come. The idea that my body no longer belonged to me, that I was nothing more than an instrument for Richard and Marta's plans, was suffocating. The walls of the room seemed to close in around me, and every attempt to rest was disturbed by anxious thoughts and incessant fears.

Sometimes, I tried to read or listen to music to distract my mind, but Marta had limited even these activities. "Nothing too stimulating," she warned. "We need to ensure you remain calm and focused."

The books I was allowed to read were all about motherhood, baby care, and health during pregnancy. The music was soft, almost hypnotic, meant to calm my nerves, but in reality, it only made me feel more imprisoned, more captive to a reality that wasn’t mine.

Nights were the worst. After an equally controlled dinner, I was left alone in the room, where the silence became deafening. The emptiness around me reflected the emptiness that was beginning to grow inside of me. I wondered how much longer I could endure this routine, this life that wasn’t life.

Each new day seemed like an endless repetition of the previous one, a relentless routine that slowly drained my will to live. I knew that Richard and Marta were satisfied with my performance, that I was doing everything right, but at what cost? I was losing my identity, my sanity, and all that remained was a shadow of who I used to be.

The weight of nine months living like this, under so much pressure and humiliation, was more than I thought I could bear. But there was no escape. I was trapped in a cycle of control and submission, and with each passing day, I felt myself drawing closer to a breaking point.

I began to wonder if I would make it to the end of this journey intact, or if, when the twins were finally born, I would have already lost everything of myself.