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After her third lobotomy, she started to wonder what was happening.
They did it in a cement factor. They opened up her chest too and injected cement. They put a stethoscope under her shirt and listened to it pump through her aortic valve.
They were weighing down her heart.
They took her blood pressure, looked in her ears and nose, put a thermometer in her mouth, dilated her eyes, and told her to lie down for thirty minutes and they would wake her up when it was over.
They never came to wake her up,
but she never went to sleep.
Instead, she wandered.
There are a lot of things to see in a cement factory.
There was a room full of young men. They were dying their hair blonde.
There was a room full of pregnant teenagers. This felt vaguely familiar to her.
There was also a room of mannequin arms and legs. This, too, felt vaguely familiar, but in more uncomfortable sense, as if it was something she had once experienced vicariously.
She never found her way back to the room with the bright lights and the crinkly parchment paper. She just wandered through the cement factory, trying to remember what it was she had forgotten on the operating table.