Mothersgrove - I got a job in a fruit factory but there is something weird about the fruit - part 2

April 2nd

It’s my first day. I have the first-day jitters. I’ve been showered and dressed for hours before my alarm was scheduled to ring. I was too full of anxious energy to sleep more. As soon as I heard the soft chime of bells echoing in the air, I rushed out of the apartment to join my new sisters.

The feeling of family I had longed for has taken hold—these women I can relate to, these strong, damaged women duct-taping their shattered lives together beside me, like war-ravaged soldiers finally able to put down their weapons.

We trailed quietly to the factory, pacing through hushed halls scented with eucalyptus and lavender. We picked up hair nets, anxiously tucking stray hairs beneath the mesh, barely hiding our smiles as we wandered to an empty conveyor line. Anna and I stood shoulder to shoulder, ready to give back.

The day passed quickly. Chatter came easily and sweetly between us all. We carefully handled round, glossy apples, soft fuzzy peaches, ripe swollen plums. Fingers delicately tested the firmness, turning them over almost religiously, scanning them for blemishes on their perfect new skin.

Once, I paused—holding a plum longer than the others. It was warm in my hand. Too warm. I could have sworn I felt a pulse. I looked at Anna. She just smiled.

Lunch was spent sitting in the grass, eating fruit and drinking cool, fruity punch. I’ve never felt this clean and rejuvenated—from the inside out. I closed my eyes and smiled up at the sky, just happily sitting in silence with my new friends.

The rest of the shift was more of the same: quiet, methodical sorting. It felt like, as I sorted through each fruit, I was also sifting through the detritus of my life. Placing grief and heartbreak into neat little baskets. Moving on.

I ended the day on the balcony with Anna and a glass of orchard wine.

Life is good.

Finally good.

April 3rd

Another beautiful morning. The sun is shining, the clouds are hiding, and I feel new—like a snake that’s finally shed its cracked old skin. Leaving it behind. Fresh.

I woke up smiling.

Me—smiling. I couldn’t believe it.

This place is the Garden of Eden, and I’m going to do everything I can to stay here forever. A little damaged voice deep inside me whispered to beware the serpent offering an apple, but I shut her up and locked her away tight. I won’t let anything spoil this. Not again.

I practically skipped into the kitchen, made a quick breakfast, and headed out to start my day.

Hair net carefully placed.

Hands washed.

Assembly line ready.

We chat. We smile. We sort.

Most of the fruit, as usual, was perfect. Pristine. But a few… a few weren’t.

They were strange.

My hand brushed over the supple flesh of a peach and paused. There was a growth. Not the kind I expected—not like those “wonky veg” packs you get on discount. Something about it unsettled me. The shape was… almost familiar. For a moment, my mind conjured the image of a tiny arm curled against the fuzzy skin.

I suppressed a shudder and gingerly placed it into the reject basket.

Around me, the others were still smiling. Still chatting.

That’s when I noticed a woman working the conveyor line across from us. One of the veterans—someone who’d been here long before we arrived. Some of them worked happily, mimicking the same graceful, practiced motions we had adopted. But others... others were quiet. Eyes downcast. Sad.

Still, I reminded myself—we all came from broken places. A world of pain and unknowable horrors. The shine of a new start has to fade eventually. And even in a beautiful place like this, some ghosts slip through.

The rest of the shift was peaceful—if you don’t count the occasional strange fruit. Some were oddly shaped. Too large. Heavy in ways they shouldn’t be. Once, I swear I felt something move beneath the skin—like a worm or grub burrowed deep inside the ripe flesh.

I told myself these were just unlucky fruits. Creepy crawlies that slipped past the gardeners’ watchful eyes. Nothing more.

The day ended, and I drifted home.

Yes. Home.

My home.

My sanctuary.

April 4th

Another day in Eden. I wake up every morning and count my blessings. I’m so thankful to be here—to be safe, to be loved.

Yes, real love.

Not the jealous, choking kind that suffocates and squeezes the life from you, but something honest and airy, the kind you feel deep in your bones.

I made an extra croissant for Anna this morning and headed out the door, cheerful crumbs clinging to our chins as we giggled our way to work.

Hairnet. Hands washed. Lined up.

More fruit. More chatter. Turns out my trauma senses were spot-on—Anna opened up to me as we worked.

She, too, escaped a husband who turned ugly when the whiskey flowed. Another woman who learned too young how to hide a bruise, which makeup worked best, which clothes could cover the "love" her husband left on her skin. I smiled sadly, knowingly. We understood each other without needing to explain.

The rest of the morning passed with our hands intertwined beneath the table while the other sorted and sorted. Peach. Pear. Plum. Apple.

I shivered when my fingers touched the apple that rolled to a stop in front of me. Something was wrong. Uncanny. Its smooth red skin curved in a way that was... almost fetal. Small, fused limbs. I thought I saw the faint imprint of a face. I bit back a sound—whether a cry or a gasp, I’m not sure—and quickly tossed it into the reject basket. I looked around. No one else seemed to notice.

Maybe my mind is playing tricks. Past guilt bleeding into this new, beautiful life. I shook it off and carried on.

Most of the fruit was fine. A few pears oozed a red-stained juice—those went into the unworthy casket too. Anna and the others joked about some of the sillier shapes, comparing them to their husbands’ appendages and laughing like schoolgirls. It felt good to laugh. It felt real.

But I noticed her again—the woman with the sad eyes. She stood at the end of her line, hands still, eyes locked on the reject basket. Tears slid silently down her cheeks, ignored by the world around her. She didn’t speak. Just wept.

The world can break you in quiet, permanent ways. And even here, even in paradise, some cracks take longer to fill.

As the sun set on another glorious day, I whispered a small prayer to whoever watches over the damaged little girl hiding inside women who’ve seen too much—and thanked them for bringing me here.

Anna and I shared another bottle of wine on the balcony, laughing as the last light dipped below the orchard. She feels like a sister I didn’t know I was missing until now.

I’m starting to feel whole again.

April 5th

Good morning.

Today is the first morning I didn’t have to blink around the room, heart pounding, sure I was back where I came from—trapped in a prison made of his arms, his breath, his fists. No sickly heat of whiskey on the air, no phantom promise of pain.

Not today.

Today I woke up safe, tucked in covers that were mine alone, floating in my little soft life raft.

Anna knocked twenty minutes before we needed to leave. She sat on my kitchen counter, swinging her legs, smiling down at me while I handed her some overnight oats I’d prepared. It felt good—to feed someone. To care because I wanted to. Craved it. Not because I was too afraid not to.

Blushing, she pulled something from her pocket: a small, folded piece of paper.

A sketch.

Us on my balcony, arms raised toward the sunset, chains drifting up into the clouds.

Tears prickled at my eyes. I hugged her tight and smiled through it.

We walked to work making plans. Places we wanted to visit. Foods we’d never dared try. Clothes we never thought we’d be brave enough to wear. My future—once cramped and airless—was unfolding, warm and sunlit.

Hairnet. Hands washed. Lined up.

We worked side by side. Sometimes we didn’t need to speak—just humming the same tune, or brushing hands when no one was looking. We’re healing together, I think. Two halves of something broken, gently knitting back into place.

Most of today’s fruit was perfect. Glossy. Lush. Sweet-smelling. I bit into one during break and juice dribbled down my chin like summer.

But one peach…

It sat in my palm, too soft. Too hot. Not just warm, but body warm.

I dropped it fast into the reject bin and wiped my hand on my apron. Didn’t say a word.

Not even to Anna.

Maybe it was my imagination.

Or trauma.

Or both.

At lunch, we sat near the loading bay, sunlight slicing across the floor in golden ribbons. A Gardener passed by—pushing a wheelbarrow under a stained tarp.

They’re all men, I’ve realized. Even beneath those heavy, beekeeper-like suits, you can tell by the shoulders. The gait.

The tarp dragged on one side. Something twitched beneath it.

A leg?

A branch?

My brain reached for an answer and came back with silence.

Anna didn’t even look up from her sandwich.

That woman was still on the line today—the one who stares at the reject bin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her movements slower than usual. Just before break, she brushed past me and whispered, voice low and dry:

"Keep your eyes on the belt, love. It starts with a bruise, then a heartbeat."

Before I could answer, Julia appeared—like she’d been listening all along.

Smiling that bright, perfect, locked-door smile.

“Maureen,” she said sweetly, placing a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder,

“Time to rest, I think.”

Maureen didn’t come back.

We ended the shift early.

“A gift,” Julia said. “You’ve all been so good.”

Anna and I walked back toward the dorms. The orchard loomed behind us.

Still.

Too still.

Like it was holding its breath.

But I’m being silly. This place is good. We’re safe here.

I’m safe.

Aren’t I?

April 6th

I woke to Anna knocking on my door, arms full of a chaotic little breakfast she’d cobbled together. I love Anna—but I do not love her cooking. Let’s just say culinary arts might not be her calling. We laughed over the burnt toast and eggs hard enough to chip a tooth, and agreed I’d be handling meals from now on.

We headed off to work hand in hand, a comfortable silence draped over our shoulders like a blanket big enough for two.

Not much to report today—the usual rhythm of picking and sorting.

Well... almost nothing.

I know how it’s going to sound, but—

One of the girls dropped a large, misshapen plum onto the floor during inspection. It burst open on impact, a wet, visceral sploosh as seed and juice sprayed the concrete.

But that wasn’t all.

I swear I heard a sound—sharp and high-pitched. Like a baby's shriek, threaded into the squelch. Just for a moment.

The room went still.

Then came the awkward laughter, pink cheeks, the shuffle of unease.

One of the older workers quickly swept it up with a dustpan and broom, her movements practiced, efficient, like she’d done it before. The mess disappeared into a waiting bin bag, and the line kept moving.

I glanced down the conveyor.

The spot where Maureen used to stand—at the end, watching the reject bin—was empty.

My stomach twisted. I hope she’s okay. I really do.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of fruit and chatter.

Anna and I walked home with sore feet and full hearts. We collapsed into our beds, exhausted.

And for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep with the phantom baby crying in my head.

April 7th

The morning began like the others—breakfast with Anna, the short walk through the gardens to work. It felt a little quieter today, more thoughtful. Like we were both carrying something we weren’t quite ready to share.

Hairnet. Hands washed. Lineup.

Today’s yield was poor.

Much of the fruit came down the belt bruised, misshapen, or strangely textured. It was mostly the peaches—something must be wrong with one of the trees. One peach landed in my tray with thick, puckered welts curling across its surface. My mind saw veins, pulsing under stretched skin. Another split slightly at the seam and oozed a thin, syrupy liquid that smelled like rot and old coins.

By lunch, my hands were raw from scrubbing at the antibacterial station. I didn’t want whatever was in those fruits soaking into my fingertips.

I noticed the Gardeners more today. Thick arms, muscle under fabric, flashes of sun-dark skin beneath their suits. And I noticed something else too—the veteran woman, the one who swept up yesterday’s plum, shrank back whenever they passed. A subtle flinch.

Still, after where we’ve all come from… maybe fear of men is just something we carry now. Muscle memory in our bones.

Even so, it knotted something in my stomach.

Maureen still hadn’t returned. I asked Julia if she was feeling better.

For a moment, she blinked at me like she didn’t know who I meant. Then, too smoothly:

“Oh, Maureen—yes. She’s had some health-related issues. Nothing serious. Just a short stay at a clinic. She’ll be back once she’s feeling better. No need to worry.”

No need to worry.

When we returned to the line after lunch, I noticed Anna’s hands trembling just slightly before she touched the fruit. Her free hand twisted the hem of her apron in tight little loops.

I asked her about it later, after work. She smiled too quickly and said she just had a lot on her mind. Said she was going to turn in early.

I get it.

I did the same—shut the door, made tea, and tried to run from the things crowding the corners of my own mind.

April 8th

I slept poorly. My dreams were thick with trees—twisting branches, vines dangling like umbilical cords, reaching for me, wrapping around my limbs, dragging me toward swollen bark that pulsed like flesh. I woke with a gasp and stumbled to the bathroom, vomiting bile and fear.

By the time I cleaned myself up and dressed, Anna was already waiting outside. Her hair was a tangled mess. I could see in her eyes that she hadn’t slept well either.

We held hands on the walk to work like two frightened balloons, clinging to each other’s strings, terrified that one of us might float away.

Hairnet. Hand wash. Line up.

Only a half-day today—just the morning shift. After lunch, we were scheduled for routine health screenings and a “general mental wellness check-in.” That’s what they called it.

The fruit felt wrong again. Some of it twitched subtly when we weren’t looking directly at it. One peach looked nearly translucent, and inside the thin membrane of its skin I could see the faint, lumpy silhouette of something curled. But no one said a word. We moved robotically, sorting, inspecting, discarding, each of us lost inside our own heavy thoughts.

At lunch, Anna and I sat in the garden. Her head rested gently on my shoulder. We didn’t speak. I wanted so badly to fix this for her—to make the world gentler, warmer. But I hadn’t figured out how to do that for myself either. So we sat in silence. Not speaking, but a little less alone.

Julia gathered us after lunch and led us around to the main wing of the building. A hallway branched into a sterile, white-tiled medical ward. Gurneys lined the walls, each one shielded by thin curtains. Two women in crisp surgical coats approached, their smiles far too bright.

“Oh, hello again, ladies!” one chirped. “So glad you’re here. We’ll be handling your checkups today—just a little physical and emotional tune-up to make sure you're growing and glowing. This is a space for you to share any worries or health concerns. We're here to nourish and support you.”

One by one, we were guided behind curtains. Blood drawn. Cheeks swabbed. Clothes folded neatly onto stools. A gloved hand gestured for me to lie back. The gynecological exam was brisk, clinical, efficient. Afterwards, the doctor declared me in excellent health.

She asked how I’d been feeling. If there was anything I needed. Anything that might help me “grow.”

I stared at her and realized I had nothing to ask for. This place was paradise, wasn’t it? I hadn’t taken antidepressants in weeks and my mind felt clearer—less heavy, less fogged at the edges. I told her I felt grateful. And I did.

She smiled and handed me another small bottle of supplements.

Afterwards, I waited outside the clinic for Anna. When she finally emerged, she looked pale—withdrawn, like she’d left something behind in there.

I asked if everything went okay. She nodded. Quietly.

As we reached our apartment doors, she suddenly blurted out that her checkup had gone great. Her health was perfect. Management was thrilled with her performance and wanted to offer her a promotion.

I grinned and pulled her into a hug, teasing her—asking why she looked like someone had died, then. She forced a laugh and muttered something about missing our mornings working side by side. I told her we could still eat lunch together. That I’d just have to remember to call her “boss” now.

She laughed again, and some of the weight in her shoulders lifted.

That evening, we shared a glass of wine and watched the stars from our porch. For a moment, everything felt perfect.

I have never been happier in my life.

And I am so, so grateful Anna is in it.