Page 50 of Breaking Ophelia

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.