MOTHERWORLD

Three

Sweaty heels gripped the edge of the toilet seat in vain. The grimy woman slipped forward headfirst, desperately clutching the only hope she had left to her chest: bold numbers graffitied hastily in the corner of the dirty restroom stall, now crumpled and crumbling in her trembling fingers. Hot tears stung her eyes, spilling onto the cold concrete floor.

Someone else entered the restroom. She could hear their flat feet slapping the ground as they shuffled towards the nearest stall — the only one left with a door attached. The weathered hinges screeched, scraping against her eardrums, followed by a disturbing moan of relief. Urine hit filthy concrete with a forceful urgency, a long accustomed violation to her sensitive ears. The leaky tap squeaked, exploded, bleeding into the woman's skull. The resident yelped in surprise and scurried out of the restroom with haste.

Morgan Maelona blinked, trying to separate herself from the memory.

An itch. Turning her head awkwardly, she reached under her shirt to scratch. The damp fabric seemed to thin with every movement. Her clothes were quite worn: faded and stretched out with tiny holes washed into spots she'd tugged on the most. The front desk receptionist's eyes darkened, taking in her homely appearance. A pink screen projected itself in front of her shortly afterwards, a barrier preventing them from seeing each other's face. Tendons in Maelona's jaw strained to hold back a grimace. Restless life at the Fourth had long since numbed all sense of shame.

The hologram showed a long list of names. Maelona watched Front Desk scan through each one, counting hundreds of Morgans before he found her file. He coughed, dissolving the screen with a click of a mouse. "Take your way by elevator to the thirteenth floor. The chairman will be expecting you."

Maelona's skin bristled. His voice sounded unusually rough, rusty even. "Thank you, Morgan."

Front Desk waved her away, peering over her shoulder at the next one in line. "Welcome to MMS, how may I help you."

A bitter taste crept into her mouth, making her toes curl. She could see her reflection in the black marble floor as she walked. Her old shoes felt like sandpaper against the tiles, scratching up the last janitor's work with every step. Large backlit advertisement posters loomed over her, shouting slogans from the walls: Be wise, sterilize. Mother Morgan is listening.

At last, she finally reached the elevator, pressing the top button over and over until the glass box opened to let her inside. Maelona lifted her eyes to the ceiling, swallowing hard as the doors closed shut. This was it. Going up.