9. Elena
Elena
The smell of the eggs hits me first. That artificial, sterile scent, like everything else around me. I stare at the plate in front of me, the food perfectly arranged. Scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. It’s a perfectly normal meal, but it feels more like an obligation than sustenance.
I push the fork through the eggs, but I can already feel my stomach twist. A wave of nausea rolls in, heavy, relentless. My mouth waters in that awful way it does before I’m about to throw up.
I swallow hard, pressing my lips together as if that will somehow hold it back.
I try to take a bite, just one small bite.
But as soon as the food touches my tongue, it’s too much.
My body rebels, my throat tightens, and I have to put the fork down before the bile rises.
My chest tightens, and my breath comes in short, uneven bursts.
I push the plate away, letting my hands rest on the edge of the table as I try to breathe through the waves of nausea. My head spins slightly, the room tilting like I’m caught in some kind of tide. The only thing I can focus on is keeping my stomach in check.
“Just eat it,” I whisper to myself, but the words are hollow.
I don’t have a choice. They’ve decided for me what I need. What I should eat. What I should do.
But my body isn’t listening. It never does.
I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool surface of the table, trying to steady myself. Every morning has become this. The same battle between what my body craves and what it can handle.
It’s week six. I should be adjusting by now, but all I feel is this weight.
Heavy and suffocating. It presses in on me from every side, from every angle.
The walls are closing in again—the same walls that have been here every day since I got here.
They’re the same cold, sterile walls that make me feel like I don’t belong.
That make me feel like I’m just a cog in a machine, a thing to be processed, shaped, used.
I drag myself to my feet, my legs unsteady beneath me.
I can’t stay still. I can’t stay here, not in this too-perfect room.
I feel like I’m losing myself. The clock on the wall ticks quietly, marking time as if it matters.
As if any of this matters. I glance at the door.
Another meal will arrive soon. Another check-in.
Another scheduled step. It’s all planned out for me. All decided for me.
I can’t even get out of bed without permission.
Not that I’ve wanted to lately. The fatigue weighs me down, presses against my chest like an anvil, but I know what would happen if I didn’t follow the rules.
If I didn’t stay compliant. I’d be gone, out of the program, and left with nothing.
No place to go. No job. No income. Just the barest sense of survival.
I should be grateful for the safety net, for the money, for the fact that I’m not alone. But I’m not. Not really. I feel like I’ve sold myself for a contract with invisible handcuffs. It’s all written in the fine print, but the price is something you only realize once you’ve signed on the line.
I look back at the plate of food, still sitting there, untouched. My stomach clenches, but I know I’ll try again. I have to. I don’t have a choice.
Just eat it. Just do what’s expected of you. Just survive.
I swallow hard again, this time forcing the food down, even though every part of me is screaming against it.
I’ve already given in. I’ve already let them decide for me.
The only thing I have left is the smallest piece of rebellion in the corner of my mind, where I can still feel a flicker of myself. But it’s fading fast.
I push the food away again, unable to finish.
My hands tremble as I rest them on the edge of the table, leaning forward.
The air feels thick, suffocating. I’ve signed the contract.
I agreed to this. And the worst part is, I’m completely dependent on it now.
I can’t back out. I can’t stop playing the part.
Not if I want to stay in this place. Not if I want to keep what little stability I’ve achieved.
But I don’t feel stable. I feel like I’m drowning.
And that, more than anything, is the trap I didn’t see coming.
If I don’t follow the rules, if I don’t comply, I’ll be gone. No more checks, no more security. Just me, pregnant, homeless, and alone. And the worst part? The part that twists my stomach with something colder than the nausea?
If I don’t make it through this, Cormac decides. Cormac is the one who gets to decide if I stay or go.
I finish the meal, each bite like swallowing glass. It’s easier than admitting the truth. Easier than recognizing how much I’ve already lost. The rules don’t let me forget who’s in charge.
I glance at the clock. Time for my next appointment.
Dressing quickly, I ignore how sluggish I feel, forcing myself through the motions. The fatigue weighs me down, but I don’t have the luxury of ignoring it. I have to go. I can’t miss another check-in. Not with the threat of being dropped from the program hanging over me.
The walk to the clinic is a blur. The cold air bites at my skin, but it’s almost a relief to leave the apartment. It feels like stepping out of a cage, even if the world still doesn’t belong to me.
When I enter the clinic, I spot Grace across the room. She’s leaning against the wall, flipping through a magazine, her posture as poised as ever. She looks up when she sees me, that knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Hey, Elena, how are you doing?”
“Urgh,” I groan. “Morning sickness is killing me.”
She puckers her lips playfully. “I barely remember the first trimester because of that. It’s so hard, but you look good.”
I’m sure she’s lying, but the sentiment is nice. “Yeah, well,” I mutter. “Feeling anything but good right now.” I pull my sweater tighter around me, hugging myself for warmth, though it’s not the cold I’m trying to escape.
Grace eyes me for a moment, her gaze flicking up and down. She knows. She sees through the thin veil I’m trying to put on.
“You’re getting through it, though,” she says. “You’re still standing.”
I nod, feeling a slight pang in my chest. I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m barely hanging on. But she’s right. I’m still here.
She straightens up, tucking the magazine under her arm. “Look, Elena, I’ve been around this program a little longer than you. And I’ve learned something important: you’re not just doing this for the baby, for the money. You’re doing this for survival.”
Her words hang in the air, settling deeper than I expect.
“Grace,” I start, hesitating. “What do you mean by survival?”
Her expression turns serious for a moment, and she lowers her voice. “Why do you think we’re all so careful? Why do you think we don’t step out of line? Why do you think people don’t miss their appointments? It’s not just about keeping up with the program. It’s about keeping your place in it.”
I stare at her, the realization hitting me hard. I’m not just participating. If I don’t follow every rule, if I make a mistake...
“They’ll drop me, won’t they?” I say, barely above a whisper. “That isn’t just an idle threat?”
Grace nods, her gaze unwavering. “Dr. Brennan decides who stays. If you’re not compliant, if you mess up too many times, you’re out. No second chances. No money.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine. If I mess up, if I slip up one more time…
I swallow hard. “I didn’t think it worked like that,” I say, my voice hollow. “I thought I had more of a say.”
“You don’t,” Grace says softly, her eyes full of knowing. “None of us do. This place, the program, it’s all controlled by one person. Dr. Brennan. And if you think you’re safe just because you signed up, you’re wrong. If he doesn’t think you’re working, you’ll be out. No appeal. No negotiation.”
I feel a pit form in my stomach, a lump that refuses to go away.
I’ve never felt more trapped. The walls are closing in again.
This time, it’s not just the food, or the appointments, or the program.
It’s the truth: I have no control. And if I don’t do exactly what they want, exactly when they want, I’ll lose everything. My body. My choice. My future.
I’m here because they decided I belong. But the moment I stop complying, I’m gone.