Page 48 of Breaking Isolde

I want to scream. “So I’m cattle? Just something for him to fuck and knock up?”

Valence doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re more than that, of course. But your primary function is reproductive.”

I grab the nearest weight, a dumbbell, and hurl it at the mirror. The glass shatters, raining down in a million splinters. I turn and run for the door.

It’s locked.

Abelard sighs, then presses the button in his hand. Two men appear—orderlies, I guess. Both in white, both masked. They block the door.

“Let me go,” I scream.

They advance, arms out. The first grabs my wrist, twisting it behind my back. I kick him in the shin, then elbow him in the gut, but he doesn’t let go.

The second grabs my legs and lifts. Together, they carry me back to the exam room.

A nurse is waiting, gloves on. Abelard sets out a tray of tools—speculum, swabs, a plastic duckbill that makes my stomach turn.

“Don’t touch me,” I shout, but they pin me to the gurney. The straps go tight over my ankles, my thighs, my shoulders, my wrists.

Valence leans over me. “This will be easier if you relax.”

I spit at her again. This time, she just laughs.

Abelard lifts the hem of my gown. I thrash, but the straps don’t budge. He cuts off my underwear with a pair of scissors.

“Subject is unshaved,” he notes.

The nurse kneels between my legs. “You should feel some pressure.”

I do. The metal instrument is freezing. She cranks it open and I scream.

The whole time, Abelard narrates. “Cervix appears healthy. No lesions. Depth and dilation normal. Note the inflammation at—”

“Shut up!” I howl.

He ignores me.

The nurse collects swabs, puts them in tubes, labels them. She takes a photo—flash right in my crotch.

I cry until my throat bleeds.

When they’re done, they loosen the straps. My arms flop to my sides. I curl up, shaking, the paper sheet soaked in sweat.

Abelard snaps the file shut. “You’ll get over it. They always do.”

Valence wipes my cheek with a tissue, almost gentle. “You did better than most.”

They leave me alone, naked and trembling.

After a while, I get up. I dress. My hands shake so hard I can’t pull up my pants until my breathing slows. I leave the hospital gown on the floor.

I walk outside. The sun is up, but I don’t feel it.

Every step echoes in my head: “You did better than most.” “You’re just a replacement.” “Strong mother.”

I want to tear the world apart.

But I settle for the next best thing: revenge.