Page 48 of Breaking Ophelia
I unbutton my jacket. Slow. Deliberate. I let it fall to the floor, and the sound is a dull thud. Next, the shirt, fingers clumsy on the buttons, white cotton sticking to the sweat at my ribs. I feel every eye in the gym, every lens, every ghost in the rafters.
My hands tremble at the waistband of my skirt. I will them still, and step out of it, standing in nothing but the cheap, institutional underwear they gave me. It’s see-through in this light. My nipples stand out, hard as bullets.
So I tear it off, rip the elastic, and fling it at the floor.
The doctor just nods, like I’m a dog who’s learned to sit.
She circles me, eyes clinical, pausing only to write notes on her tablet as she gestures for me to stand on various equipment. “Height, five-six. Weight, one-seventy-six. Hip to waist ratio, looks optimal at visual inspection. Musculature—underdeveloped, but within parameters. Breasts: full, symmetrical, possible prior piercings. No visible tattoos.”
She stops in front of me and gestures to the underwear.
I want to scream, but I make myself smile instead. I hook my thumbs under the band and yank them off, standing naked as the day I was born in the blaze of light.
The assistants don’t look at me; they look at her. Waiting for the next command.
She glances at my face, and for a split second, I see something human. Pity, maybe. Or just fatigue.
“Hands at your sides.”
I do as I’m told.
The first measurement is arm span, cold metal tape stretched from wrist to wrist. Then the circumference of my biceps, my thighs, my calves. She runs her hands over my shoulders, probing for muscle. My skin prickles. I imagine I’m somewhere else, a million miles away, floating outside my body and looking down at this scene like a science experiment gone wrong.
“Chin up,” she says, and slides a caliper under my jaw, pressing until the bone aches.
The assistants record every number, typing into tablets. One of them takes photos, flash bright against my skin.
My nipples are hard, my legs shake, but I won’t give them a reaction.
“Bend forward,” she says.
I do, and the doctor checks my spine, counting the vertebrae with her gloved fingers. She makes notes about flexibility, posture, possible joint injuries.
“Turn around.”
I turn, ass bare to the world, and hear the snick of more photos.
There’s a hush, then the doctor clears her throat. “You can move to the next station.”
I grab for my clothes, but the pit-bull assistant blocks me with a hand. “Not yet,” she says. “You’ll be issued new attire at the end.”
I stand, naked, and cross my arms over my chest. Not out of shame, but to hide the way my hands shake.
The Board never looks up. The men in suits are more interested in their notes than the body in front of them. But I know better. They’re predators, and predators always watch.
The doctor hands me a towel, and I wrap it around my chest, letting it hang loose.
She leans in, voice low. “It’s almost over. You did fine.”
I don’t answer.
Station Two is a cubicle of screens, blinding halogens, and the stink of medical plastic. The gym floor is out of sight; the only way in or out is a curtain drawn tight as a noose. The examination table is a slab of brushed steel, so cold it burns my calves when I sit. A nurse grabs a needle from the tray beside her. She snaps gloves over her hands, snaps them hard so the latex bites my skin when she grabs my elbow.
The doctor follows, her clipboard now stacked two inches thick with the metrics of my body. She doesn’t bother with eye contact, just says for me to “Lie back, please,” and starts adjusting the stirrups at the foot of the table. The nurse holds my wrist, pinning it in place while she cleans my skin with analcohol wipe that stings worse than the needle she shoves in, depressing something clear into my vein.
I don’t bother asking what it is.
It doesn’t really matter.
