The Last Thing She Said

“What’s your name, Sister?”

Every sinew, every neuron wanted to comply, but blood dribbled out of my mouth when I parted my lips.

Embarrassed, I motioned for another towel from the stacked pile beside the man. He wasn’t dressed as anyone helpful, but I didn’t care. He seemed kind enough—not like the others.

He understood my frantic wave and leaned over to grab another shop rag. The first one was still in my hand, soaked and useless.

He handed me the thing with remorse arched into his shoulders—much like he did when he opened the door to my incessant banging. 

I didn’t understand.

His body language read as if he cared more than he should.

“I saw you on the television there this morning while I was tinkering.” He pointed behind me to an old plasma screen that looked more like an outdated computer monitor. His garage was cluttered with mismatched nonsense—clocks and chains, weed eaters and bolts. “Kinda figured something like this would happen, y’know.”

I looked at his throat, knowing I was not allowed to make eye contact. I nodded slowly.

“You shouldn’t have said all those ugly, awful things.” It was almost a whisper, like he didn’t mean for me to hear.

I broke protocol and locked eyes with his, brows pinched in frustrated indignation. He was young—too young—but his voice carried the rasp of an old soul. The shop, the way he moved, the way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back—none of it was typical for a male in our new society.

A deep frown creased his forehead. “Listen—it wasn’t me who done this to you.” His finger aligned to my face. “But if you’d just kept quiet. If you hadn’t told the world what you’d done. I mean, God, lady—what did you think would happen?”

Blood trickled onto my chin as I made a guttural sound. My tongue didn’t brush against my teeth as it should have when pronouncing the “th” sound. What came out instead shocked us both.

Silent tears streaked my face. My beautiful words were gone, cut right out of my mouth as I pleaded with them until the very act was done.

I looked around his shop for paper and a pen, a piece of chalk—anything to tell him my side of things. Nothing.

He seemed to guess what I was aiming for. “I don’t read or write—too young to be taught. Wasn’t too young to fight the war, though.”

I glanced down at his hands.

Those hands had likely killed many of my sister-soldiers. Men like him disgusted me on ideals alone. They rode the fence between pacified compliance and having no backbone to stand up against a radicalized government. 

I wondered what he thought of me—a woman—his enemy.

“I don’t feel that way, if it helps at all.” His voice was softer now. “But you can’t stay here, Sister. I’m sure they aren’t done making an example out of you. And I—I can’t be a part of that.”

My mouth hardened. The gurgled, misshaped, deformed word erupted, along with a spew of iron—coward.

His brows raised in requited offense, a vein throbbing in his neck. He grabbed my arm and rushed me to the door, shoving me out into the dark abyss of night. Slamming the door behind me, he killed the light.

How did I get here? All I wanted was equality for women. For us to have our rights restored over our bodies and choices. 

Stumbling down his street, I kept the shop rag pressed to my lips. I had no choice—I had to head north. The infirmary was my only chance. No anesthesia. No pain meds. No sympathetic words. But at least stitches could be administered.

What was a little more pain, anyway?

Keeping to the bushes and trees, I made my way down deserted streets. A drone flew overhead, beeping in my direction.

I ran.

Sirens. Not too far behind. My hormonal heat signature had given me away. Women did not belong out after curfew. The laws were strict—no pants, no education, no birth control.

I knew I was either going to jail or to the hospital—but not both.

My legs pumped as fast as they could carry me, my body sluggish from blood loss.

You’re gonna make it. Everything’s gonna be ok—I lied to myself.

Out of breath, I ducked into a shortcut off the main road, finally seeing the cross of the hospital sign. The one with the woman’s circle on top. 

The place was dark. Panic crept up my spine.

Where did women go at night when they needed care? Were we only a daytime commodity now?

I spat blood onto the ground and forced the door. To my surprise, it gave way easily.

Further down the wide hall, a single lit room flickered to the right. I followed the light and found myself facing a burly woman in a candy striper’s uniform. She turned, eyes wide, clipboard slipping from her hands. I could only imagine what she saw—a sadistic clown, my deep smile reversed and etched in dried crimson.

She quickly regained herself. “Oh my dear—I know you.” She bent for her clipboard. “You’re Shana Miles—the news reporter.”

I nodded, my eyes shifting from side to side. The hospital didn’t feel new. It looked neglected, shoved into a corner of the world no one wanted to think about.

She straightened her ridiculous uniform. “I saw your segment this morning—I’m still surprised they let a woman speak on TV.” She continued talking, motioning toward one of the six fold-out waiting chairs. “That was so brave, what you did. Speaking your truth and all. No one ever admits to not wanting a husband and children or having a hysterectomy—not even if it was from, y’know, before.”

I sat in the chair, and it groaned like me, under the weight of the world—a man’s world.

I wanted to scream at her, but I knew it would only cause more of a mess for her to clean up. That wasn’t fair.

Slowly, I opened my mouth, letting her see the void where my tongue had been.

Her smile faltered.

Her eyes flicked over her shoulder just once—and I knew—there would be no care for me here.