Page 68 of Daddy Erik
A cold prickle crawls over my skin. “Why?”
“Your swelling looks optimal today.”
My swelling is optimal?I close my eyes. I don’t want to know what that means anymore.
I hearhim before I see him, his footsteps measured and unhurried, the sound of authority that knows it will not be challenged.
When Dr. Rhys steps through the door, the temperature in the room seems to drop. He looks at me the way a collector looks at an artifact: cataloging, appraising, owning.
“Good morning, my sweet little Claire.” My name sounds wrong coming from his mouth, and I can feel bile rising up my throat.
I swallow. “Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he walks around me, hands clasped behind his back, taking in every shift of my body. My fuller thighs. My rounded hips. My breasts, taut and heavy with milk.
“You’ve done remarkably well,” he says finally. “Better than our projections and far better than our other little cows.”
I try to turn my head away, but the harness limits how far I can move now. The IV line tugs at my arm, reminding me I am held in place at every angle.
“Please,” I speak hoarsely. “Let me go. I’m not… I’m not what you think.”
He stops beside me and lifts my chin with two fingers, not rough but claiming.
“You are exactly what I think. The perfect convergence of biology and potential. Do you have any idea how rare that makes you?”
“I’m a person,” I breathe.
He smiles, soft and patronizing. “You are a resource. My prized little cow. I’m going to make a fortune on you.”
My vision blurs with tears. He releases my chin and turns to the head nurse, Devereux, and the broad, silent man who always hovers near the equipment.
“Finalize the weekly report,” Rhys instructs. “And increase her calorific load. She needs ten more pounds before the auction.”
My heart seizes. “Ten pounds?” Devereux asks.
“At minimum,” Dr. Rhys says. “More is preferable. The highest bidders prefer a full-bodied cow: lush, plump, visibly productive, and hormonally primed. Demand has increased from five buyers to thirteen. She will be a record-breaking commodity.”
Commodity.I feel something in me tear apart.
Dr. Rhys continues calmly. “Increase her herbal dosage. Add the priming medication to her evening bottle. Expand the container capacity again; her production will triple by Thursday.”
Triple.A gallon wasn’t enough. I can’t breathe. Dr. Rhys steps closer again, lowering his voice.
“You should be proud, little cow,” he murmurs. “Very few cows achieve optimal status this quickly. You are exceeding even my expectations.”
A shiver rolls over my entire body, not from cold but from something deeper. Something like disgust and grief.
He straightens. “Prepare the Phase Two evaluation for this week. Her weight gain will dictate the timeline.”
Then he leaves. Just like that. As if he didn’t just dismantle the last pieces of my hope and humanity.
Every dayafter his visit gets harder.
The shakes are thicker now, almost pudding-thick. Sweet but with a bitterness that lingers on my tongue.
When I ask what it is, the nurse smiles. “Just medicine to help your body prepare,” she says. “For your next purpose.”
My stomach twists. My breasts swell more each hour, painfully full between pump cycles. The upgraded pump empties them into massive containers that fill impossibly fast. My thighs brush together in ways they didn’t two months ago.
