Page 52 of Breaking Ophelia
I stand at the line, waiting for the next command.
“Flexibility,” says the Board.
The trainer—a woman this time, thick-muscled and unsmiling—orders me to the mat. She bends my arms, my legs, forces my body into positions I didn’t think were possible. Every joint pops, every muscle screams.
She pushes me into a backbend, her hands digging into my hips. I feel my spine crack, the world invert. My eyes water.
“Hold,” she says.
I do. My hands slip in my own sweat, my chest heaves, but I hold.
The Board member watches, pen poised over the clipboard.
“She’ll need to be more limber for Caius’s preferences,” he says.
The words are meant to hurt, but I’m so far gone it barely registers.
The trainer drops me. “Test complete,” she announces.
I curl up on the mat, arms locked around my knees. Sweat drips from my chin, mixes with blood from my lip. My whole body shakes.
A minute passes. Maybe more.
When I look up, the Board is gone and only a nurse remains.
“Are we done?” I ask.
She nods. “You can get dressed again. The Board will review the findings and determine next steps. You’ll be notified.”
The nurse hands me a wad of tissue, expression neutral, as if she’s already forgotten my name.
I wipe myself off, pull on the white clothes, and stand. My legs shake, but I don’t let it show. I keep my jaw set, my eyes forward.
When I walk out, the first thing I see is the courier. He stands at parade rest, hands folded behind his back, a model of Westpoint efficiency.
Beside him is a Board member. Not Abelard or Valence, but someone new—tall, sunken eyes, lips like a razor cut.
He glances at the tablet, then at me. “Morrow.”
I meet his gaze.
He reads from the screen: “Adequate pelvic structure. Healthy reproductive system. Suitable for breeding. No history of mental illness. Good pain tolerance.”
He looks up, and his eyes cut through me.
“Caius will be pleased with the specimen.”
I don’t flinch.
I clench my fists, dig my nails so deep I know I’ll have half-moons for days. I refuse to look away, refuse to show them anything but contempt.
The Board member taps the courier on the shoulder. “Send her to conditioning.”
He turns and leaves, the click of his shoes like a countdown.
The courier gestures for me to follow. Despite my body feeling like it’s tearing itself apart, I force my legs to move.
As we walk, my hands drip sweat, my lip throbs, my thighs burn. But I keep my head high.
