Chapter 2: Kira's Mocking Visit
The flickering bulb had finally died, leaving Mathilda in the grainy yellow half-light that seeped past her thin curtains. She hadn’t moved from the center of her bed for hours, the sterile device lying beside her like an accusation. Her body felt both hollow and too full, a raw, trembly vessel that had performed a function. The act had been mechanical, lonely, and punctuated by a sharp, cramping pain that was now a dull throb low in her abdomen.
The door burst open without a knock.
“Well,” Kira announced, filling the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair slightly damp at the temples. She looked vibrantly, infuriatingly alive. “That was a trip.”
Mathilda pulled her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to dissolve into the patchwork quilt.
Kira kicked the door shut and leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest, a smirk playing on her lips. “Come on, don’t give me the wounded sparrow routine. You did it, right? I saw your little… contribution… in the fridge. Very patriotic.”
“Don’t,” Mathilda whispered, her voice scraped thin.
“Don’t what?” Kira pushed off the door and prowled into the room. She picked up a discarded sweatshirt from the floor, sniffed it, and tossed it onto the desk. “It’s done. First one down. Five thousand dollars closer.” She perched on the foot of the bed, making the springs squeak. “You know, it’s kind of a funny feeling. After. All that… tension, and then it’s just this weird, empty ache. Clinical. I kind of liked it.”
Mathilda stared at her. “You liked it?”
“The power of it,” Kira clarified, her green eyes gleaming in the low light. “Knowing what it’s for. It’s not like some messy hookup. It’s a transaction. Clean. Sharp.” Her gaze dropped to Mathilda’s hunched form. “You didn’t like it.”
It wasn’t a question. Mathilda looked away, focusing on a crack in the plaster that resembled a lightning bolt. She could still smell the faint, antiseptic scent of the gel from the kit on her hands, no matter how many times she’d scrubbed them.
“I felt sick,” she admitted to the crack in the wall.
Kira laughed, a single, bright sound. “Oh, Mattie. Of course you did. You probably treated it like some sacred ritual. You probably cried.”
Mathilda’s silence was confirmation.
“See, that’s your problem. You make everything so… heavy.” Kira leaned back, bracing herself on her hands. “It’s biology. It’s a job. A weird, gross, high-paying job.” She swung her legs up, stretching out on the bed beside Mathilda, invading her space. “You want to know what I think? I think our dear landlady has a type.”
“What?”
“A type.” Kira turned her head on Mathilda’s pillow, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “She picked us both, but we’re not the same. I’m built for it. You’re… you’re like a little porcelain doll. Fragile. Breakable. Some people are into that. They see something delicate and they want to see if it can… hold up.”
A cold wave washed over Mathilda. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s psychology,” Kira corrected, smug. “I bet she’s hoping it’s you. I bet she gets off on the imbalance. The sheer unlikeliness of your tiny body managing to do something so… monumental.” She propped herself up on an elbow, her face close enough for Mathilda to see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “Wouldn’t that be something? If I, with all the right equipment, lost the wager because your pathetic little ovaries decided to show up for once?”
The cruelty was so casual, so wrapped in playful analysis, that it stole Mathilda’s breath. This wasn’t just about money anymore. It was about Kira needing to win, and needing Mathilda to lose in the most humiliating way possible.
“You want me to get pregnant?” Mathilda’s voice was a ghost of sound.
“I want to win,” Kira said, her smile widening. “But if I lose… God, what a story. My best friend, the living twig, gets knocked up by a turkey baster for a rich lady. The ultimate underdog tale. It’s almost better.” Her hand snaked out and poked Mathilda’s flat stomach, right where the cramp still lingered. “I’m kind of rooting for it, honestly. The drama would be epic.”
Mathilda swatted her hand away, a spark of genuine anger cutting through the numbness. “Get out.”
“Touchy.” Kira sat up, still smiling. “Just think about it. All that money. All that… purpose. You walk around this place like you’re apologizing for existing. This would give you a reason. A really fucked-up, profitable reason.” She stood and stretched, her shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned waist. “My money’s on you, Mattie. In more ways than one.”
She walked to the door, her confidence a physical heat in the damp room. With her hand on the knob, she looked back. “Oh, and I saw her. Mrs. Gorham. When I was putting my sample in the fridge. She was in the kitchen, making tea. She asked if you were okay. Said you seemed ‘very slight.’” Kira mimicked the landlady’s precise, concerned tone perfectly. “She wasn’t worried about me at all.”
The door closed. The silence was different this time. It wasn’t just empty; it was pregnant with a new, more terrifying implication.
Mathilda’s hand drifted to her own abdomen. She imagined something taking root in that barren, aching space. She thought of Mrs. Gorham’s elegant hands, the scent of jasmine, the quiet footsteps outside her door. The question wasn’t just if she could endure the process. It was if she was, herself, the desired vessel.
The cramp twisted again, deeper. She curled onto her side, facing the wall with its faded concert posters and sketches of Kira’s laughing face. For the first time, the thought of losing the wager didn’t feel like a relief. It felt like a specific, curated kind of annihilation.