It was heaven, being defective. The girl in the gown red as her eyes that sat slightly too close to the bridge of her nose—whose IV tugged at the inner crook of her arm as her assistant fell behind— floated, despite the needle’s sting and slight hunch in her back, fluidly into the elated, cheering crowd of hundreds of one identical, perfect face. With a certain sophistication, she smugly grinned at the interviewer placed in front of her as she was asked with the upmost giddiness, for what felt like the millionth time in her life, “What is it like… to be dying?!” The arrows in the corners of her mouth curved farther upward toward her ears as she described, with the same rehearsed vibrancy she always had, an experience that would never be theirs. The crowd leaned further toward her—itching with anticipation for a quick glance into a life unsustainable for their everyday world—the one their great-grandparents would have lived, relieved when the cure came to their children and all generations to follow—a life that the new generation would die to understand.
Flashing cameras surrounded her as she was ushered into the sleek, black town car, too harsh to resemble a starry sky. As she slid in, the gown—the one in their size—prodded itself into her skin—below the pits of her arms, on her sides, and in the space where her thigh connected to her hip. The surrounding crowed gawked at such a thing… with nothing but the upmost admiration for this unreachable body ideal.
With the IV situated awkwardly into the backseat, Matilda, her assistant, glided into the vehicle with a certain gazelle-like grace, the same form they all had; she pulled proofs from the event out of her bag. “Which one do you think would be best to send to the press?” The gown tugged as she leaned forward to look closely. “I think this one would be a hit,” said Matilda, pointing to the choice where the dress looked tightest and her skin looked palest—allowing the bags under her eyes to tell stories of their own. The girl nodded in uncaring approval—her body too exhausted from the day’s strain to be concerned about looking as sick as her immunity to normalcy would allow.
For as far as her memory would allow her to travel, the hospital the network built for her was a frigid place. High, white, sterile ceilings. 236,756.5 pristine floor tiles. 7,931 steps. 165 windows, all sealed shut. No doorways openable without an approved security pass. It was all the same when she returned that night, sliding—with great effort—beneath the stiff, starchy sheets long overdue for a replacement and the eyes of a crew she never herself approved for hire.
When she was young, she thought seeing herself everywhere was a dream come true—her face on TV, billboards, magazine covers—something special. Now, she couldn’t change the channel from any mindless sitcom without experiencing images of her worn face, captured without consent or mild interest whatsoever.
It was then that her mother, (adorned everywhere with the flash of someone who has more money than she knew how to spend,) busted into the room, overflowing with her favorite news since the last time it happened. The girl in the bed knew exactly what was happening; she was getting worse. For the first time, the woman from whom she came was followed by analysts from the station in addition to the usual throng of medical professionals. This was it. Ratings had gradually decreased as she became more stable, but that wouldn’t be a problem anymore. The network was about to gain its largest number of viewers in its history.
All for one single, live event.
The next week blurred past under the grasp of heavy sedation and eating just enough to sustain life, fading in and out of sleep and overhearing just enough of reality to wish she hadn’t again awoken. Lights up. Executives releasing official statements on her behalf. Lights dim. Up. Tabloids bidding over publicity rights. Down. Interviews with giddy reporters. Of course! It felt great to die! Her mother buying plane tickets for Bali the next week. Down. Down. D
O
W
N.
The day she’d anticipated since she was old enough to understand finally did come. Her heart beat slow on the monitor as she was asked, for one final time, “What is it like!? To be dying!” Her heavy smile turned upwards, and her eyes closed deliriously as the question sunk its way down to the trench of her consciousness in which she was coerced to reside in a life of submission. She nodded her head as her own frail hands delicately to the crook of her elbow and said nothing as her grip pulled the needle from it—a chorus of monitors screaming that it was over.
Three months had passed since she left. The nation’s tears were all dried away after around thirteen days; they had something new to direct their excitement toward—a baby born screaming instead of laughing—with tired eyes that sat slightly too close together and a heart that beat a little too fast.
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