September 16, 2019 | Occasus | Issue 9 | Fiction

Errors in Reflection

There’s a scar just above my right eyebrow. It’s small, about two centimeters long, and sits just where the hair stops. It’s been there since I was a couple years old. My dog bumped me and I tumbled down a full set of stairs. Despite the mark, I miss that dog. I won’t miss the scar once its gone though. In my mirror at home, the scar is barely visible; however, under the bright lights and clear mirrors of the waiting room I can see the slightly red indent that mars my otherwise okay looking face. Also, my nose is an issue. There is a large bump that erupts from the bridge between my eyes down to the slightly off kilter rounded tip. It was September 1, 2086 when I got the bump, the first day of softball tryouts for nine-year-olds. My best friend was ahead of me and swung the bat straight into my face. My dad held me in his big muscular arms and joked about how, when he was young, they would have rushed me straight into the hospital to have plastic surgery done to fix my nose. He claimed I was lucky. For the small price of waiting until I’m legal age, I could have a body exchange instead of surgery. And I’ve been waiting. For four and a half years, I’ve been waiting. Today, the day of my fourteenth birthday, I am finally able to have my first body exchange.
              
There’s a screen in the right hand corner of the room playing a video of the history of Human Ambition Inc. It’s the only sound besides breathing in the full waiting room. The youthful and optimistic voice of Julie, the Human Ambition Inc. spokesperson, explains that sickness, pain, and even death have been conquered. They have developed the technology to guide a person from one body to another. Through brain transplant and chemical correction, Human Ambition Inc. has made it possible for anybody with enough money to look and feel anyway they want. Human Ambition Inc. synthetically makes all the bodies to meet every individual’s desires. Specific chemicals can be injected into your brain during transplant that can improve focus, cognitive function, and emotional intelligence. Take Julie for example, she’s ninety-six-years-old and is happy, healthy, and most importantly, beautiful.

Everyone here is gorgeous; however, most of them have tanned skin—last year’s look. I guess that’s why they’re here. Time for new bodies to replace the old out of style ones. They’re all fixing things, just like me. We are always improving.

I’ve chosen a beautiful blonde and green-eyed body. She’s very skinny and slightly taller than my currently too short frame. Most importantly, her nose is small and straight and there is not a single scar on her body. Well, there will be one on the back of her scull from where they put my brain in, but everybody has that; so, I’m allowed to have it too.
              
I stare at the light blue plastic covering of the chair in front of me. Its pristine material pulled tight into its base. The door on the opposite wall from the screen opens. “Bella Mentior” a brunette young woman said from the open door. I stood up to follow her through to the transplant rooms. The last time that body would ever get to walk. According to the company, after a transplant the old body is disposed of through burning.

A year later, I sit back in the waiting room, staring at the same chair. The front right corner of the blue plastic is beginning to pull away from the nails holding it in place. The lady I followed last year’s brown hair should have been a sign that I had chosen the wrong body. Everybody chose dark colors that year. I’m getting a new body so I don’t stand out so much. Something darker, still beautiful, but more understated. I would have come back sooner, but you aren’t allowed to get a third body until a year after your second. I did not wait an extra day.
              
The new body is perfect except for the inability to stomach chocolate; then there is the body that is too affected by the pollution in the air; then the one that is too tall; then too weak; then I find out big boobs get in the way of everything.

Now every issue I’ve ever had is fixed, but there’s something wrong with this body. It wasn’t made right. There’s this tingle it gets from its shoulder blade that races down its arms. It’s not a physical tingle, more of a feeling of rejection. Like the skin is trying to pull itself from the flesh underneath. Whenever I am in the dark of my room I try to speed up the process. My manicured nails are too thick to do any good and leave red marks that have been spotted by some of my classmates. When it happens, tears get pulled to my eyes and my face contorts into something vulgar. The body is perfect except for the malfunctioning skin. That’s why I am here today. To get a body that is made right. To get a body that doesn’t reject itself.
              
The next body I receive has the same issue, but somehow worse. The next one hurt even more. The new method they are using to make the bodies must be faulty. I wonder why no one else is commenting about it. Another body later, the feeling is unbearable. I had an appointment booked for today, yet I can’t bring myself to go. I’m struggling enough as it is. I don’t know what I’ll do if the feeling gets any more painful.
              
There’s a candlestick on my nightstand. It’s mocking me. Its form and patterns are symmetrical and planned. In its original form it is already perfect. I have tried nine times to get it right and I am flawed. The surface of the candlestick displays a distorted reality. The curves of its body bend and stretch the light to reflect my image differently than the mirror hung up on the wall next to me. In the candlestick I have a nose too large for my face; a large bump that erupts from the bridge between my eyes down to its slightly off kilter rounded tip. My eyes dart away and I see my face in the mirror with my straight small nose that fits perfectly onto the body I currently reside in.
My muscles twitch and convulse as I look back and forth between the two versions of myself. I try to breathe to calm them, but the air is too thin and will not fill my lungs. I try and try, but my throat is closing and the two faces just sit there watching me. My neck is starting to hurt from looking back and forth between the two faces. I cannot tell which of them I hate more. My arm reaches forward of its own volition, grabs the candlestick and smashes it into the other mirror. The two pristine pieces of glass shatter and crack. The shards fly around the room. I look down and one jagged edge juts out of my chest. Dark red oozes around the edges, softening them. I can barely even feel it. So odd, I don’t remember requesting physical pain reduction for this body.

The mirror still hangs upright next to me. The bottom part is too splintered to make an image, so I sit up on my knees. From here I can see a face even through the cracks. A cut above my right eyebrow is leaking red into my hair. More blood pools just next to my eye and I watch as it starts to drip down the edges of my nose—my fucking straight nose. As I watch a hole must open in my chest and the walls must cave in, because the pressure over my heart becomes so painful that water clouds my eyes. I miss the candlestick image. The scar on my right eyebrow reminds me of the scar from my dog. I have not thought about that dog since my fist body. That is the body I should be in, but that body is gone forever.

Unless.

No.

Well.

Unless I can recreate it.

What’s left of the candlestick is staring at me. Before I can second-guess myself I grab it and smash it into my nose.

I wake up back in the waiting room. I’m lying down this time. My mom is talking to some transplant technician. They’re standing right next to me. Their voices are too quiet, but I can make out some of their words. I hear the technician say that my body is too damaged to make it beautiful again. I need a new one. The technician asks my mom what I want to look like. I can’t make out what she says next, but I hear the end of it…

She tells him to make sure I have a straight nose.

TEAGAN WILDER has loved creating stories and alternate world since she was a young child. While Tegan has chosen to pursue chemistry for her degree, writing remains a passion of hers. Tegan uses her science knowledge to help her write fiction stories inspired by the problems facing the world today.