Jasmine Van Santen - Aged 14 - Winner!
Like an intense Hitchcockian thriller, the story, along with our protagonist, remains tied to a gurney, the narrative unfurling from sensation & perspective rather than dialogue & action. We loved the way little clues were dropped throughout, revealing what was happening. This unsettling parable about body dysmorphia, internalised misogyny, societal pressures, and regret is a powerful piece of writing. It really taps into the unnerving aspect of voluntary surgical procedures and without explicitly stating what is happening, the process of plastic surgery is written into a truly horrifying procedure. Fantastic characterisation: the inner monologue of the character shows panic and builds tension in a very effective way. The repeated device of referring to the antagonist only as ‘Him’ cranks up the tension dramatically. A scary story of what lengths people will go to for ‘beauty’. Keep writing like this!
The antiseptic white light hammers down on me, forcing my eyes shut so all I see is the bleak darkness of the world. I struggle against the crumpled covers of the gurney; drawn so tightly over me that they strangle any chance of movement.
I’m trapped.
Swivelling my eyes around the room, I try to absorb my dismal surroundings. But the light, that flickering white light, shines so brightly that all I see is nothingness. But I can imagine what is here. Wheezing machines. Clutters of equipment. A technicolour of suspicious bottles, no doubt. All so starkly contrasting the quaint little waiting room with stick-thin, sun-kissed girls behind reception desks; the only somewhat pleasant part of this place. Maybe that’s the point. Lull people into the feeling of calmness and validity in their decision, then bulldoze them with the entirety of what they’re doing to their bodies. What I’m doing to my body. I remind myself why I chose to come here. Because yes, it was a choice.
I could leave, I realise. These people aren’t my captors. One scream, one plea, and the sheets would be thrown off, the monitors unhooked, and I’d be flying back to the country I belong in. Yet still, I’m metaphorically handcuffed to the bed. I can’t turn back. There’s nothing to turn back to. No money. No career. Nothing. This is the future I’ve made for myself.
Thoughts tumble over each other, scrambling for space within my conflicted mind, my brain rocketing into overdrive.
Some are new.
Foreign.
Unexplored.
Like jagged juts of a coastline.
Others are old and familiar worn-down pebbles. All crash against each other- shattering into shards and leaving destruction behind. The crescendo of white noise drowning my eardrums is soundless to the world. It’s like I’m not even here. Like I’ve died and been left to rot. An unwanted teddy bear dropped in the streets. I can only wallow in a puddle of self-humiliation towards what I’ve signed up for. What I’ve paid for. Soon they’ll come, though, with their ghost coats and squeaking shoes down the dingy corridors. With their listeny things, their touchy things, their sleepy things…
I snatch a well-thumbed magazine from the discarded pile, a measly attempt to redirect my thoughts. My eyes burn through pages of cookie-cutter Brazilian women- customers- modelling their results. Soon it’ll be me pasted across the front cover.
The swing doors crash open but it's not until He’s stooping over me that I break from my trance. It's not until then that I really, truly begin to regret what I’ve done. A gaping hole of crooked, blackened teeth fills up much more of His face than is natural. It smiles, flapping open and shut like a fish. It takes me all too long to realise He’s talking. To me. I try to concentrate, I do, but the throbbing of a migraine and the ringing in my ears overwhelms my attempts. Did I feel like this earlier? When I sauntered into this…establishment, giddy for my metamorphosis. Or have They done something to me? Gave something to me?
I turn my interest to the room, which is only in focus now the lights have dimmed… When did they dim? It doesn’t matter, though, because it’s empty. Only the observation machine and bed fill some space. That, and an array of posters slapped onto the walls, another attempt to redivert eyes away from the grime spreading behind them. Besides Him and me, nobody else is here. Aren’t there more glove hands and smart ties? This isn’t what I expected when I chose to take my body, my job, my life, further. Like all those other women I saw.
I jump as something is drawn across the surface of my body. My eyes shoot down to see Him with a thick, black marker carving brushstrokes across the blank canvas of my skin, branding me with my shallow crime. His beetle-black eyes squint in determination, yet His hand is uncertain. The mark that springs from it is wobbly and confused, like He’s shooting in the dark in the hopes of hitting… something. The covers are stripped off my bed and dumped in a sorrowful pile. Now, my lungs finally breathe, even as the rest of me slowly suffocates.
I think about my family. My friends. My life. So far from here. I should’ve listened. I should’ve. And yet, simultaneously, I couldn’t. I needed to do something. I return my focus to Him, examining each inch of His face and building a mental profile. Beneath His jacket is a garishly bright striped shirt with buttons that scream in protest against the avalanche of flesh that fights against them. Already the top two buttons have surrendered, revealing far too much chest. His round, chocolate face is nothing like my own pale, freckled skin. It’s bitterly aged and great canyons run across His forehead, like lines of a map. Bushy black slugs slither above His eyes, contorting and writhing with concentration. While His body takes up the entire room, His features are paled in comparison. Little black specks blink at me and a wedge of nose flickers as He draws in small, laboured breaths. If I was asked to draw a storybook villain, I’d draw Him. My stomach turns.
From out of view, a pathetic stream of water flows into a sink as He splashes His hands. All too soon, he’s back at my side, flicking the dirty water around the room carefree. Still, grime clings to those chipped nails. His lips curl into what could be called a grin, but it never reaches His eyes, which are cold and unreadable. When my steely expression doesn’t waver, the smile fades into a grimace, not even trying to hide His wish to be far away from here. He shakes His head, says something I can’t catch in a language I can’t understand, and returns to His work- a flicking of hands I can't follow.
He knows what He’s doing, I tell myself. But then, does He? Because everything He does is with the blind panic of someone just hoping for the best.
And then, He grabs something.
The mask.
Just like that, it becomes all too real. This is happening. I’m really letting Him, this man I’ve never seen before, cut me into pieces and sew me back together. Physically, at least. I don’t think I’ll ever really be put together again. My hairline cracks have long become deep ravines that only one thing can fill.
Money.
As He lowers the mask onto my face, I growl into life- a monster awakening from hibernation. My arms flap aimlessly, finally managing to swat the mask from His hands. His eyebrows form one long shadow down the rest of His face, the light playing tricks as He swarms before me.
Everything about Him signals- ‘this is a mistake’.
A malicious grin seeps across His lips. I’m just a crease in His shirt needing ironing out. Just a glitch which He’ll enjoy the challenge of rightening. I force out the shriek of a banshee, so deafening that He stumbles backward. Sucks in a breath. And tries again, pinning me down effortlessly. I guess they can’t even afford bed restraints here. My legs continue to flail, fighting against Him, fighting against the gown, fighting against myself. I kick and scream like a wild thing, but it’s pointless. The bed I fight to break from, the room I fight to stop caving in, I’ve paid for. The money is gone and isn’t coming back. This is it. There’s no option to accept defeat and brush away the lost money.
And yet my heart still thunders against my chest. I, at least, pictured someone… different doing the procedure. Not just the first random old man they could find off the streets of Brazil. Nothing is sterile, nothing has been checked, and all that has been said to me is a garble of Portuguese.
A stab in the hand brings my resistance to a harsh stop. I stare down through my blurred vision, blinking away streams of tears that I don’t remember starting. His hands obscure mine, but I feel something sliding under my skin. And then, I feel nothing. The edges of my vision smooth and blacken until Grimy Hands disappears. I fight against the fatigue that falls like a veil, struggling to concentrate on the remaining ceiling I can still see. As my vision clouds and my breathing falls into a calm rhythm juxtaposing my racing heart I focus on the white, antiseptic strip lights above me. Sprawling images shoot across my vision. Women with tiny waists and big hips, flat tummies, and needle legs. That’ll be me, I think as my drugged-up mind finally caves in.
Tiny waist.
Big hips.
Flat tummy.
Needle legs.
My shopping list of requirements that I’ve put in His hands. It’s only when I’m practically submerged in sleep that I realise that’s what I already have.
Had.