Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Claire
I wake to the sounds I’ve become accustomed to, the pump humming as it works diligently at milking me. Somewhere in there I must sleep, because every time my eyes open, something feels different.
The first difference today is my clothes. I feel too foggy and sore, swallowed by the ache in my chest from constant suction. On what I assume is the second morning of week two, the seafoam-scrubbed nurse with the rope-braid hair and quiet eyes walks in, rolling a cart.
“Good morning, little cow,” she says cheerfully. “Time to change.”
She unclips the pump harness, and I feel the weight of my breasts immediately, heavy and sore, the skin feeling flushed and warm. The relief is so sharp I almost moan, but the air hits my skin and every nerve screams instead.
She helps me sit up slowly, propping me against raised pillows. For the first time since I got here, I see the entire front of my shirt.
It’s a pale, worn tank top I don’t recognize.
And it’s too small… again
The fabric stretches tight over curves that weren’t there before, clinging to every new swell. My shorts, also not mine, dig a little more into my softened hips and thighs, seams leaving slight marks in my skin.
“These aren’t my clothes,” I rasp.
“Your old ones no longer fit,” she says calmly. “This is standard facility wear. Easier to monitor your body this way.”
Easier to monitor, but not easier for me.
She unfastens the waistband, checks my diaper, and replaces it with practiced hands while I stare straight ahead at the ceiling.
“Good,” she murmurs. “No irritation. You’re tolerating the regimen beautifully.”
Her words strike me with a sudden shock. “Regimen?” I ask.
“The medication schedule, the nutrition plan, the pumping intervals. All of it. We’re seeing an exceptional response from you, little cow.”
Exceptional response… God, I want to get sick. She shimmies the new shorts up my legs, tugging them over my hips. They’re a little snug, too, but feel better than the ones that were just removed. Everything feels like it’s closing in.
“Why am I… feeling bigger?” My voice shakes. “I wasn’t like this before.”
She smiles, almost pleased. “Because your body is adapting. The diet and hormones are doing their work. You were undernourished before arrival. Now you’re approaching optimal condition.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper, my throat thick.
Her gaze softens with something almost like pride. “For Phase Two, little cow. But that’s not yet. First, we finish Week Two of Phase One.”
Phase One. Phase Two. They talk about my life like project stages.
She helps me lie back down, and the burly man in the corner, today it’s the one with the shaved head and forearm tattoos, steps forward to re-secure the restraints. His hands are careful and efficient.
I hate that a part of me is grateful he doesn’t hurt me. The nurse reaches up to the IV bag, disconnects it briefly, and hooks up a smaller clear syringe into the line.
“What is that?” I ask.
“A new hormone support,” she says. “You’re entering an advanced stimulation protocol. It will increase your production. Dr. Rhys is very pleased with your baseline output, but he wants to see if you can go higher.”
Higher?! I already feel constantly full. Tight. The pump bottles fill faster each day. How much more can there be?
She depresses the syringe slowly. A cool sensation trickles through my arm, then spreads like frost through my veins.
“This week,” she continues in that same gentle tone, “we monitor how you respond to the ‘breeding phase’ priming medicines. They mimic late-pregnancy hormone patterns. Not dangerous,” she adds before I can panic, “just potent.”
Breeding phase. The words slam into my chest like a physical blow.
“I’m not…” My voice breaks. “I’m not an animal.”
She tilts her head as if considering. “Biologically, everyone is. But you’ve been chosen for a higher purpose. That makes you special.”
Special. I turn my face away so she won’t see the tears. The pump harness is reattached, the funnels repositioned, and the machine turned back on. The suction grips hard, drawing at my already overworked tissue. I bite my lip so hard I’m surprised I don’t taste blood.
“Bottles upgraded today,” the nurse notes, adjusting the containers at my sides.
Only then do I realize they’ve changed. They are no longer the small, hospital-sized bottles I recall from the first week.
Now, attached to the tubing and framed in metal holders, are clear, rigid containers the size of small jugs. Each marked with careful measurement lines. Every drop, recorded as data.
“How much… are you taking?” I force it out.
“Yesterday?” she says, checking a chart on her tablet. “Just under a liter.”
My head spins. “That’s not possible,” I whisper.
“It is,” she replies. “Your system is remarkable. The ‘breeding phase’ meds will likely push you toward one and a half. Possibly two.”
Two liters. The number lingers in my mind like a heavy weight.
“Don’t worry, little cow,” she adds, her voice almost soothing. “We’re monitoring you very closely.”
That’s the problem; I want to scream. You’re monitoring everything but my soul. Instead, I lie there and let the machine pull another part of me away.
The days of the second week meld into one another, yet each leaves a distinct impression within me.
Morning routine: pump, shake, monitor vitals, change diapers, shower, eliminate, then go back to the pump.
Midday: a new IV mixture, new notes in my chart, and a longer look at the expanding lines of filled containers being wheeled away on carts.
The men are always there. Always rotating. Always silent. Occasionally they scroll on their phones. Otherwise, they just sit, eyes on me, breathing like they’re part of the room’s machinery.
The women move around me like a ritual. Hands checking temperature. Hands adjusting straps. Hands apply ointment to the nipple and skin. Hands holding bottles to my lips.
The nutrition shakes are heavy, creamy, and sweet. I can feel them settling into me, sinking into every cell. My body is changing shape under me, and I have no say.
One afternoon, as I choke down the last of a lunch shake, I pause, my tongue catching a faint bitterness underneath the vanilla.
“What… is that taste?” I ask.
The rope-braid nurse pauses. “Which part?”
“The… bitter.” I swallow again, grimacing. “It wasn’t there before.”
She seems almost pleased by the question.
“That’s the concentrated herbal blend,” she explains. “Natural precursors are converted very efficiently by your body.”
“Precursors to what?” I ask, even though I already know.
“To the hormones that support lactation and gestational readiness.” She smiles. “You are priming perfectly.”
Gestational readiness. My stomach twists. “I didn’t agree to this,” I whisper.
Her smile falters, just a flicker. Then she schools her face back into serenity.
“You were chosen,” she says softly. “Consent is for participants, little cow. You are an asset.”
Asset. I turn my face to the ceiling and let the next swallow burn all the way down.
On what I’m sure is the fourth night of week three, the music playing overhead is the same nocturne they used three nights ago. I’ve started counting them, and I notice the nurse brings in the nighttime bottle.
It looks thicker and heavier. She almost glows under the overhead lights.
“Time for rest,” she says. “Your numbers were excellent today. We need your body to consolidate the changes.”
“I don’t want it,” I say, voice shaking. “I don’t want any of this. Please. Just… let me talk to someone. Let me call Erik. Please.”
Her gaze softens for a fraction of a second. I see something human flicker and then vanish.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “We’re not authorized to allow external contact.”
“This isn’t ethical,” I choke out. “You know that! You went to nursing school and took an oath!!” I’m practically yelling, or as much as my hoarse voice will let me.
She takes a breath, then another, and for the first time, her hands tremble faintly around the bottle.
“Ethics,” she says quietly, “are written by people who don’t understand what’s possible.”
I stare at her, my horror blanking out everything else. She lifts the bottle again. “You need sleep, little cow. Your body does more work at rest than you realize.”
I feel so hopeless at this moment. Where is Erik?
Why hasn’t anyone come to get me? It didn’t take nearly this long for us to find Grace, so what is going on?
And the bone-chilling realization begins to creep in.
What if… what if no one is coming? What if this is my life?
I’ll be auctioned off soon, and I’ll never see anyone I love or care about again.
My body visibly shudders from the thoughts swirling in my mind, yet the nurse is ignoring any indication of my emotional breakdown.
She presses the bottle nipple firmer into my mouth, and at first I try to resist, but then the dam inside breaks.
I’m so tired of trying to emotionally fight this, and now I’m realizing I’m too tired to cry.
The nipple presses deeper into my lips. I open, swallow, and taste that same thick sweetness overlaying something else, something that spreads warmth through my limbs almost instantly.
Within minutes, my muscles go heavy. My thoughts slow. The pump hum drops into the background like distant thunder.
“Good girl,” the nurse whispers, stroking my hair. “Let the medicine work. You’re making miracles, you know.”
If this moment is a miracle, I think hazily, what does a curse look like? Darkness pulls me under before I can find the answer.
Near the end of the fourth week, Friday, maybe, or Saturday, I wake from my afternoon nap groggy, but not fully drowned by the sedative haze.
The room is quiet. The pump still hums. The containers beside me are already half full of thick, pale liquid swirling gently with each pull.
The door opens. It’s not the rope-braid nurse this time.