4.
Aphiwe was up on a bench dressed in nothing but a towel on her waist. It'd eventually be pulled up by a team of women in goggles. First, they had to 'start at the top'. A tiny white cloth was dabbed against her sweaty skin, scraping then dragging.
What sweat was there was collected and catalogued. Dozens of painful samples.
Her eyes hurt, her mouth dry, still tasting fabric. There were literally a dozen women bustling around her, her mother had a board with papers and scrolls. All her secretions were tested. They were in the lounge, the door underground up, windows, tiny holes in the ceiling filling the world with light. But even more rose from deeper underground. Bodies rose from the underground holding glass, some boxes, most books and papers, a great many papers, tied with string.
"My heart." Thato began, "Do you need to pee?"
Aphiwe sighed and would've rolled her eyes.
She shook her head. Thato was disappointed.
"Oh well, tell me when you do."
Aphiwe just stared unblinking, saving strength. There'd be no point in rolling her eyes and sighing.
No mom, I don't need to poop either, no samples. The words bounced against the front of her skull, reaching for her mother.
Her mother retreated but was quickly replaced by multiple other women in white. Behind, her mother watched, towering. Eyes locked to her. Next to them were dozens of beakers, glass in rows, vials filled with multiple colours, each with their own smell. Those that could not be contained by cork intermingled, dancing upon her nostrils. Each vial would be fed to the cloth and marked down.
It didn't matter, there was only her mother's stare.
YOU ARE READING
The Open Book
FantasyThe Biography of a Biography. Aphiwe is sick and stuck in bed having just fought for her life. All she got out of it was a stupid book. But the book says: "Do not read this if being alive is the most important thing to you. If greatness is the more...
