Page 67 of Daddy Erik
“Nearly twenty pounds,” she answers without hesitation. “All healthy. The majority of her weight is concentrated in her hips, thighs, breasts, and subcutaneous stores. They are exactly where we want them to be.”
My vision blurs. She removes a vial from the cooler. “This is the last of the priming sequence for Week Three.”
I shake my head rapidly. “No! No, please… please don’t!”
She injects it into my IV, ignoring my pleas and begging. Warmth blooms through me almost instantly, tingling, dull, and heavy like melted wax poured through my veins.
My body sinks into the hospital-grade bed. “You’ll feel full for several hours,” she says. “Your milk output will likely exceed two liters today.”
Two liters. My breath hitches. “That’s impossible.”
Her lips curve faintly. “You said that last week. And yet here you are.” I close my eyes because looking at her hurts.
She places a hand on my forehead. “Rest, little cow. You’re almost there.”
Iknowit’s the last night of the week because the music overhead changes.
A cello. Slow. Haunting. The kind of melody that aches. The nurse dims the lights and brings the nighttime bottle.
This week’s is pink-tinted. Stronger than last week. I can smell the sweetness before she touches it to my lips.
“Open,” she whispers. I hesitate. Her hand smooths my hair gently, reverently.
“Little cow… you’ve done so well. Don’t fight this part. You need sleep.”
“I want Erik,” I breathe. She pauses only a moment.
“He can’t reach you here.” My heart twists into something sharp and unbearable.
“You don’t know that,” I whisper angrily. She doesn’t contradict me. She doesn’t agree either. Instead, she brings the bottle back to my lips.
“Sleep,” she murmurs. The sedative slides over my tongue. Heavy. Warm. Soft as velvet. My vision blurs. The pump hums. The straps hold me steady.
And as the darkness rises to swallow me whole, one last thought thunders through me, desperate, raw, a prayer hurled into the void with my whole being: I don’t even care if it is Erik that finds me… I just want someone to come save me!
By the fourth Monday,I no longer fully wake from sleep.
I surface from it, thick, heavy, and unwilling, like a body trapped under warm water.
My eyelids flutter open to the familiar ceiling: pale panels, a soft hum, and the distant whisper of classical piano drifting from the speakers overhead. Chopin today. Something slow, something that aches.
The restraints are already in place. The pump is already attached. Another morning. Another cycle. Another day inside the life they carved around my skin without my permission.
My breasts ache, a deep, full heaviness that makes my ribs feel too tight. The gallon tanks attached to the upgraded pump are half-filled already and impossibly heavy. I don’t even know when the session began. I might have dozed off during it.
The female nurse enters with her usual clipboard and her impossible calm.
“Good morning, little cow,” she says, checking the suction levels. “You’re producing beautifully.”
Beautifully.If anyone else said that word to me, I would probably cry from gratitude. From her, it lands like a chain tightening around my neck.
“What day is it?” My voice comes out small.
“Monday, Week Four, Month Two,” she replies. “The final preparatory week before we officially launch Phase Two.”
Phase Two.My stomach lurches, but I don’t have the energy to vomit. She moves around the bed with clinical ease, rechecking my IV line, changing the adhesive, and smoothing ointment over my sore nipples in practiced strokes.
Then she pauses. “Oh good,” she says brightly. “Dr. Rhys will be pleased.”
