“You did very well,” he says. “You’ll make an excellent mother. The Board will be pleased.”
I want to spit in his face, but my mouth is dry.
He stands, writes a note on the chart, and leaves the room.
The nurse looks at me and tells me I can get dressed in my clothes. I want to kick to scream, to stab her with a pencil, but I don’t. I just nod, then stagger to the small bench against the wall, where the nurse has left my clothes in a tidy folded stack. My hands reach for them, but my fingers feel wrong, too long and clumsy.
I slip on my underwear and bra, then the skirt, but my hands shake so violently that I can’t manage the buttons on my blouse. I jab at the top one, miss, try again, fumble it through. The second button slips from my grip, then the third, until I am stabbing blindly at the holes, the whole world reduced to cotton and plastic and the useless flesh of my own hands.
Tears hover, threatening to fall, but they don’t. I refuse to let them. Instead, I clench my jaw, grind my teeth together so hard I feel the bone creak.
When my blouse is fastened, I reach for my jacket, slide it over my shoulders, try to smooth my hair into something that looks like control. My arms keep trembling. I tuck them close to my sides and press my knees together.
When I walk, I wobble. My left knee nearly gives out, but I catch myself on the wall, steadying against the cold cement.
The escort is back, walking towards me.
He sees the stumble, then looks away, embarrassed on my behalf. He waits for me to meet him halfway before turning and walking towards the entrance, opening the door, stepping into the hall, and gestures for me to follow.
We walk. Each footfall is loud in the empty corridor. I fix my eyes on the floor, trace the cracks in the tile, the chipped paint along the baseboards. Outside and across the quad, the escort checks over his shoulder to see if I’m still there.
I am.
Halfway back to my room, we round a corner and nearly collide with Dean Marcus.
He moves with purpose, a folder tucked under one arm, his free hand flicking through his phone. He wears the same navy suit as always, his tie straight and perfect, his hair unmoved by the wind or the world.
He sees me. Our eyes meet. For a fraction of a second, something flashes behind his face—sympathy, or maybe disgust.
Then he looks away, as if I am a stain on the wall, an inconvenient smudge. He brushes past, the folder grazing my arm, and keeps walking.
My chest tightens. My jaw clamps so hard I hear a pop in my ear.
The escort hesitates, then mumbles, “Almost there,” like he’s apologizing.
I follow, head down, every muscle locked.
When we reach my dorm, he opens the door for me.
“You’re done for today,” he says. “You can… rest.”
I step inside, the familiar darkness swallowing me whole.
The door shuts. Silence returns.
I move to the window, press my forehead to the cold glass. My reflection stares back: hair wild, eyes red, skin pale and translucent.
There is no hell because nothing could be worse than this.
I slide to the floor, knees pulled to my chest. My fingers dig into the fabric of my skirt, searching for a feeling, any feeling at all.
I replay the walk in my mind, the way my father’s eyes skipped over me, the way I was nothing more than a blip in his schedule. Not a daughter. Not a student. Not a person.
Just a product. A vessel.
A thing.
I wait for the tears, but none come.
