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 daysof 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.
