“You’ve been taking the medication?”
The nurse pulled off her gloves as she spoke, the snap of rubber loud in the room.
“Yes, every day, as directed.”
“Great, let’s see if it’s worked.” She indicated for Ivy to follow her down the corridor.
Trotting behind, her pulse sped up, excitement or nerves, Ivy couldn’t tell. A door swung open and she was ushered in to find a room full of women, row upon row of them, hooked up to machines; a sound like an enormous heartbeat pulsed in the air. Arriving at an empty station, the nurse hovered next to her, tapping her foot.
“Attach the pumps to both breasts please, then I can adjust them.”
Ivy’s hands fumbled with the straps, confused. “What is all this? What are we doing here?”
Pipes snaked about the room, linking each woman to the industrial tanks behind them.
“The country needs milk and you are here to provide it.”
“You wanted to help, didn’t you? Well now’s your chance.”
The sharp tingle of her let down stopped her tongue and as her milk began to fill the pipe, the warning bell of fear inside her faded away, made silent by a rush of oxytocin.
As she busied herself with her task, questions overrode the images in her mind. Where would her milk end up, whose cereal, whose coffee cup – cheese perhaps, or yoghurt even?
Rebecca Williams has always wanted to be a writer. She completed the first draft of her novel – about bored housewives on a vigilante crime spree – in August 2017. She is killing time before second draft edits by dabbling in flash and shorter fiction. You can find her on Twitter @stupidgirl45