Assignment 10 Olivia Klee

It's ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning. I have been ordered to walk in a straight line. No talking, no stopping, no running. The fluorescent lights are buzzing and everything in sight is squirming with bacteria from hundreds of snot-nosed children. I enter a kind of fake-cozy space. Already inside are scores of girls that look just like me, all waiting for what comes next.

We were about to find out about The Blood.

Being the oldest child, I was given no warning, no chance to escape or fake an illness like my friends with older sisters. So there I sat, waiting like I was conditioned to do. There were a few nervous giggles, and suddenly The Woman appeared.

The Woman walked into the now stuffy room. She seemed to glance at each and every one of us before uttering her first word. It was all obviously premeditated; her perfectly-timed entrance, the elaborate makeup and pantsuit, and the clear whiteboard.

She contorted her face into an unnaturally stretched out smile and then pushed past some of the smallest girls to draw on the board. Everything she drew was red; the tube, the blood, the sideways lips. I didn't know whether I should believe her. I thought maybe it was some sort of cruel scare tactic. Then, without saying a word, she prowled over the small children to a sink and filled a measuring cup to the 15 ml mark.

"This is how much blood comes out when you get your period," she said.

I have never been more scared in my life.