The Day I Walked Into the Wrong Room - Cover

The Day I Walked Into the Wrong Room

Chapter 3: Fear of Fear

I reached back and tried the door, while I kept my gaze on the leader’s massive breasts as they moved towards me. The door didn’t open. The cold metal bar didn’t even rattle as I shook it. The heat of the room caused sweat to bead on my forehead. An ugly room, the old white boards covered in streaked marker and black remains of tape, with posters extolling the benefits of breastfeeding. The wall, with the door, had a massive green chalkboard with ‘Learn How To Express’ printed neatly across the top right in white chalk, and shelving with white and blue blankets, pillows, and brown boxes.

The leader wrapped her arm around my shoulders and turned me to face the class. Her breast pressed into my elbow, the milk wet against my skin, too warm, it burned, but I couldn’t pull away. Her breath smelled of tuna fish and orange juice, while her hair smelled of strawberries. I couldn’t move, my whole body stiff. She whispered in my ear, “I know you’re not the expert, but the flake flaked again. You need to help me.”

I mentally screamed at my arm to move away from her breast. I tried to drop and get out of her grip, but my body didn’t listen, and while older, her hand had a strength that didn’t allow escape.

“I can pay you. What’s your name?” Her words tickled my ear and caused shivers to run up and down my spine and my full bladder to press against my belly. I answered without thought, conditioned to do as a mother says, “Jonathan.”

Why, why did I come to the hospital? Mom and her friends told me to stay away. They forbid me. And I defied them. Surely they couldn’t have arranged this. Worst nightmare. Mother’s breasts, full of mommy-milk, bursting with fluid, under pressure, they might explode and kill me. Or my heart might stop, exhausted, too fast, or my lungs might not get enough oxygen, as I forget how to breathe and held in stale air.

 
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