Chapter 11 Ophelia #2
Then she leans forward, pressing the end of the scope deeper. “No evidence of trauma. External labia: normal, no scarring, no warts, no herpes. Clitoris: normal. Hymen: unremarkable, not intact.”
She says it like it’s an insult before retracting the instrument.
“Internal exam,” she announces, and rams her fingers inside, pressing so deep I feel it in my spine. She feels around in there, pushing so high I swear to God she’s in my womb. She checks for cysts, for fibroids, for whatever else can go wrong in a body made for breaking.
“All normal,” she says. “Good tone, no laxity.”
She pulls the gloves off, drops them in the trash. The nurse wipes me down with a towel, not even bothering to ask if I want to do it myself.
Through all of it, the Board watches from the other side of the screens. I know, because I can see their shadows, hear the scratch of pens on paper as they tally my worth.
The doctor steps back, turns to the monitor, and pulls up an ultrasound. She jellies up my stomach and presses the probe against my skin, smearing it in a wide arc from rib to pubic bone.
A blurry black-and-white fills the screen. She clicks buttons, measuring the size of my uterus, the thickness of the lining.
“Follicles present,” she says. “No evidence of hormonal disorder. Patient is currently ovulating.”
She says it loud enough for the men outside to hear. I can almost see them nod, see them make their notes.
She wipes off the jelly, then covers me with a paper sheet. “Sit up when you’re ready.”
I push myself up, my hands fists at my side, nails carving deep into my palms.
The doctor pulls up a stool, sits eye to eye with me. For the first time, I see something human in her—maybe regret, maybe just exhaustion.
“I know this is difficult,” she says. “But you need to understand. The Board values genetic integrity above all else. They don’t care who you are. Only that you can breed.”
I want to spit in her face, but I bite my lip instead, so hard I taste copper. “Can I get dressed now?”
“Blood work first and then yes.”
Why the fuck I need to be naked to get blood drawn is beyond me, but what good is making a stink? They’d probably make me do jumping jacks naked if I said something, so instead, I numbed myself out. Going deep into my mind, into a place where nothing can touch me.
The next station waits at the far end of the gym, a row of exercise machines and a bank of medical equipment. As I walk, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors they have set up. My face is white as paper, eyes huge and hollow, but my back is straight, chin high.
I look like a ghost.
But ghosts can’t be hurt.
At the end of the room, a nurse waits with a blood pressure cuff and a hypodermic. She gestures for me to sit.
The chair is cold on my ass. I don’t flinch. She straps the cuff to my arm, squeezes until my fingers go numb, then lets the air out slow. “Pulse is elevated,” she notes.
“Not a surprise,” I mutter.
She ignores me and takes the needle, jabbing it into the crook of my elbow. The blood wells up, dark and viscous, and she draws three vials in silence.
When she’s done, she pats the spot with alcohol and covers it with gauze. “You’re cleared for the exercise testing,” she says.
I stand, the towel slipping, and walk to the final line on the gym floor.
At the edge, the courier is waiting. He hands me a set of clothes: white t-shirt, white shorts, white ankle socks. All one size too small.
I dress in front of them, making sure to take my time.
Let them watch. Let them know I survived.
When I’m done, the doctor approaches with a tablet. “You’ll proceed to the treadmill: physical testing. Follow the line.”
I walk, the new uniform clinging to my skin, and at every step I feel the eyes. Not just the Board, not just the doctor, but the school itself, the memory of everyone who’s ever been forced to bend, to break, to strip off their armor and stand raw in the light.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms, and let the anger anchor me.
They want to see me shamed.
Instead, they’ll see me rise.
The treadmill is old but tricked out with rails and a digital readout that glows blue in the harsh light.
At the head of the machine, two Board members stand ready with tablets.
They don’t look at me, not really. They look at my body, at the stats scrolling up the screen, at the camera mounted right above the console. One points to the treadmill belt.
“Up,” he says.
The mat is rough, friction-grit, and I know it’ll be a mess of blisters by the end.
The tablet guy gestures. “Begin at 6 mph, incline four. When instructed, increase speed and incline. Failure to comply will result in repeat testing.”
I step onto the belt. The chill of the steel frame is gone—this is hot, sticky with old sweat and disinfectant. I brace myself, trying not to look at the camera, trying not to imagine who’s watching on the other end.
The belt starts slow, but I set my pace, arms loose, breath controlled. At six miles per hour, it’s a jog, and the numbers on the console are a clock to my humiliation.
After two minutes, he says, “Nine mph. Incline six.”
I ramp up, the machine jerking under my weight. The air is thin, dry, and I realize I’m already sweating, the old adrenaline from the exam feeding into this. My shirt is plastered to my chest. My breasts bounce with every stride, ache with every footfall. I ignore it. I keep running.
The Board does not speak. They record.
“Increase.”
At twelve miles per hour, my lungs burn, the sound of my feet a thunder in my ears. My face is a salt mask. I think about slowing, about faking a stumble, but I see the look on the Board’s faces—not anticipation, not even interest. Just calculation.
I run harder.
At fifteen mph, the world blurs. I feel my nipples scrape the fabric, chafe until the skin tears. Blood or sweat, I can’t tell. My thighs are rubber, my calves on fire.
“Sixteen,” the man says, and I nearly vomit.
The treadmill is screaming. My legs are pistons, my feet numb. I last fifteen seconds before the world whites out, and I slam the emergency stop with my palm, collapsing forward on the rails, breathing in short, violent gasps.
The silence is deafening.
“Noted,” says one of the men. “Endurance, above mean.”
I slide to the end of the mat and stand, swaying.
The next station is worse.
Strength, they call it, but the setup is pure torture. Free weights, a bench, a pull-up bar mounted so high I’d have to jump for it.
“Remove shirt,” says the Board member. “Testing upper body. No interference.”
“Why did you let me put it on?” I snarl through heavy breaths.
“Quiet and do as you’re told.”
I peel it off, skin clinging, and toss it on the floor. My nipples are bleeding, raw as the inside of my cheek. I see the camera move, auto-focusing on my chest, and I grit my teeth until my jaw aches.
They start with push-ups. Standard, then diamond, then knuckles.
I do every rep, counting in my head, ignoring the way my arms tremble, the way my breasts pull and sting.
When I hit fifteen, the man says, “Continue.”
I do.
At twenty, my elbows quiver, my arms collapse, but I catch myself, force another three.
The Board is silent.
“Pull-ups,” he says.
I jump for the bar, fingers slipping on the knurling. I manage two before my shoulders seize, then drop and go again.
They watch the whole time, never blinking.
Next is the bench. They load the bar to half my body weight and gesture for me to lie down.
I do.
The steel bites my back. The bar weighs nothing at first, but after two reps my arms scream. After four, my eyes water. At six, I’m crying, though I don’t let the tears fall.
They up the weight, do it again.
This time I fail before I even start, the bar pinning me to the rack. The Board member leans in, not to help, but to watch.
“Again,” he says.
I obey.
The world narrows to pain and breath and the sound of metal on metal. I lose track of how many sets, how many reps. My arms go numb.
When I can’t lift anymore, they move to legs.
Squats. Deadlifts. Lunges with weights I didn’t know existed.
By the time I finish, my body is a map of trembling muscle and burning skin.
I stand at the line, waiting for the next command.
“Flexibility,” says the Board.
The trainer—a woman this time, thick-muscled and unsmiling—orders me to the mat. She bends my arms, my legs, forces my body into positions I didn’t think were possible. Every joint pops, every muscle screams.
She pushes me into a backbend, her hands digging into my hips. I feel my spine crack, the world invert. My eyes water.
“Hold,” she says.
I do. My hands slip in my own sweat, my chest heaves, but I hold.
The Board member watches, pen poised over the clipboard.
“She’ll need to be more limber for Caius’s preferences,” he says.
The words are meant to hurt, but I’m so far gone it barely registers.
The trainer drops me. “Test complete,” she announces.
I curl up on the mat, arms locked around my knees. Sweat drips from my chin, mixes with blood from my lip. My whole body shakes.
A minute passes. Maybe more.
When I look up, the Board is gone and only a nurse remains.
“Are we done?” I ask.
She nods. “You can get dressed again. The Board will review the findings and determine next steps. You’ll be notified.”
The nurse hands me a wad of tissue, expression neutral, as if she’s already forgotten my name.
I wipe myself off, pull on the white clothes, and stand. My legs shake, but I don’t let it show. I keep my jaw set, my eyes forward.
When I walk out, the first thing I see is the courier. He stands at parade rest, hands folded behind his back, a model of Westpoint efficiency.
Beside him is a Board member. Not Abelard or Valence, but someone new—tall, sunken eyes, lips like a razor cut.
He glances at the tablet, then at me. “Morrow.”
I meet his gaze.
He reads from the screen: “Adequate pelvic structure. Healthy reproductive system. Suitable for breeding. No history of mental illness. Good pain tolerance.”
He looks up, and his eyes cut through me.
“Caius will be pleased with the specimen.”
I don’t flinch.
I clench my fists, dig my nails so deep I know I’ll have half-moons for days. I refuse to look away, refuse to show them anything but contempt.
The Board member taps the courier on the shoulder. “Send her to conditioning.”
He turns and leaves, the click of his shoes like a countdown.
The courier gestures for me to follow. Despite my body feeling like it’s tearing itself apart, I force my legs to move.
As we walk, my hands drip sweat, my lip throbs, my thighs burn. But I keep my head high.
I survived.
They want me to cry, to beg, to break.
All they get is blood in my mouth and a rage that won’t stop growing.
I hope these motherfuckers choke on it.