‘Munked

Where is it? Where is it?! My hand flails around under my bed, searching for the glossy feeling of the box I so carefully packaged it in. Though I do take pride in my exceptional hiding skills, I am quite annoyed at my ability at this moment, as it makes the whole process a lot longer. But I can’t risk anything, no way. No one can find this.

My hand hits it, the box. The sleek finish feels like a million dollars to my hands. I draw it out, being sure to make as little noise as possible. I can finally see it, peeking out from under the bed frame, the shiny black outside, the delicate embellishments on the front. I exhale in wonder, it is more beautiful than I remember, a stark contrast to my boring matte brown world.

I slide the box into my lap, it fits perfectly in the nook of my criss-crossed legs. I slowly slip the top of the box off, holding my breath. Once the top is alone in my hands I place it on the floor with care, being sure not to scratch the beautiful finish. I look back to the now open box, starstruck by what’s inside, but suppressing my gasps of wonder, I can’t make a scene, they’ll hear me. The mass of golden blonde hair that was once on my head, sewn into a wig, sits in the box. I hold it up, admiring my handiwork. I can’t believe it’s finally done.

I sneak a glance in the mirror. My thin, nearly gaunt face stares back at me. My intensely thick, dark eyebrows, and my dark indigo eye bags are a stark contrast to my pale, clear skin, and my bright, almost neon, green eyes. My cheekbones high and prominent, jutting out sideways, giving my face a unique geometric look. I like my face, even if it isn’t the ideal.

The only part of my appearance that I despise is my hair. The tragically short, dyed brown mess that the elders ordered when I turned ten is truly a pathetic excuse for a haircut. It’s so dull seeing everyone over the age of ten look nearly like carbon copies of one another from behind. Which brings me back to the wig.

A recreation of my shorn locks, to get me back my individuality. My own little dissent from the norm. I slip the wig onto my head, looking in the mirror to fix it. When the application is impeccable I get a good look at myself, up and down. The hair is long, shiny blonde, reaching to just above my hips, framing my face so naturally. This feels so right.

I hear the quick, clicking footsteps of my mother and quickly take off the wig, placing it in it’s box. Placing the lid on the box, and sliding it under the bed, I’ll hide it better later.

By the time the door slides open with a scrape, I am sitting on my bed staring at the ceiling. I can see her face through the open door, swollen cheeks, wide-set full black eyes, neutral toned fur sprouting all over her face, off-white from the cheeks to the the chest, above that lines of copper, pointing to her snub of a nose, and the bark toned fur that starts at the base of her nose and extends up in a half hourglass shape between her eyes and up to her stuck up ears.

“Errant..,” her meandering voice hums, “Are you ready to go to your alteration?”  I nod my head shakily as my eyes snap to her.

“Errant, are you nervous?” She cocks her head, wide eyes seeming to expand in accusation.

“A little…,” I admit faintly.

“Okay, well, you’re 15 now, you are required to go,” her voice devoid of sympathy, she thinks this is fine and normal. I almost laugh.  

“Mother, do I need to bring anything?” I’m trying to stall. Time is running out. I can’t be altered.

“No, Errant,” her face juts forward, “Now please stop with the stupid questions, let’s go.” Her hand curls around my arm, sharp nails digging intentionally into my skin, yanking my arm harshly towards the door, and dragging me out of my room with a ruthless force.

No one else is in the hallway, it looks endlessly barren, only the numbered doors for each person’s room accent the blank creme walls. I hear my own labored breathing, gaining pace with each step we take, knowing that I’m closer, closer to total relinquishment of my freedom.

There it is. The door. The mountainous, cold steel block that will lead to the extermination of my free will. I am one push away from a “perfect” face and a mushy brain. My mother reaches out and pushes.

I am thrust inside and the door slams shut behind me. There is a grandiose assortment of sinister looking machines scattered around the room. A table with chains, an almost comically large needle. The space should seem cluttered, but everything has kept its eerie perfection.

At the opposite end of the room stands a man, though I would hardly call him that. His face and body are stretched to the near extent of the beauty ideal, making him sickening to look at. More animal than human, in the crux of the uncanny valley. They make us learn every possible alteration technique in school, and this thing has had all of them plus ones I have probably never even heard of.

He slinks towards me, clipboard with various papers attached in hand. His back arches forward, as if it is more natural for him to saunter along on all fours. His nose twitches, and his head lurches near the papers.

“Err-ant,” he says my name in an amused sing-song way, his words seem unnatural, stopping and starting,”N-ow let’s ge-t to wh-at yo-u ne-ed. An alteration!” He doesn’t squeak out that word, he seems delighted to have the opportunity to stick needles and strange liquids into me.

He holds out some sort of thin dressing gown, looking closer I see it is akin to a hospital gown, boxy shape, with ties in the back. I could run, I could stop this now, I could take a needle and jab it through his neck, I don’t have to be altered. But what would happen after? Someone would find out, I’d be convicted, maybe go to those torture jails. At the least they’d find a new doctor and make my alteration happen. No matter what. I go into a small stall, a structure of white plaster and a curtain in the corner of the room.

Coming out of the stall, holding my old clothes I see the doctor gesture for me to get onto one of the tables, I obey, not wanting to endure a more painful alteration due to the doctor’s annoyance at me. He holds out a pill, small, round, white. Probably a sedative, or possibly some body prep drug. I pick it up, holding it between my thumb and pointer finger. I draw it closer to my mouth, wishing that this is just a dream. It drops down my throat.

“O-kay, let’s st-art!” Not a sedative after all, damn. He grabs a sharp looking syringe off a cart of tools, and stabs it into my left cheek. I scream. I can feel the tip sticking into my muscles, into my veins, the liquid inside inflating my skin, leaving it feeling stretched and sore. The sticky liquid leaks into my mouth, dribbling down my throat, cutting off my oxygen, my breathing is labored, it feels like I’m drowning. I want to cough, to relieve my system of the liquid, but I find myself unable to. He yanks out the needle, now dripping with my crimson blood, he wipes the syringe clean with an exceedingly sterile looking towel, I let out a relieved breath, my throat is almost clear. It’s over, I’m okay. He picks up an identical looking syringe and sticks it in my other cheek, the process is repeated.

He removes a shiny scalpel from the table and takes it to my jaw, cutting a gaping gash into it. He scrapes off all the blood and tissue, then starts to file away the bone, chunks flaking off. Once there is only a thin strip of bone left he pinches the skin around my gash tightly and gathers up something similar to a hot glue gun, he makes small strokes, pouring the hot paste over the open wound to close it up. I feel my skin bubble with burns, my throat too hoarse to scream any longer.

After the onslaught of pain, I feel almost numb. He picks up one last syringe, this one filled with a goopy brown liquid, instead of the slooshy creme stuff in all the others. He lifts it over my head, higher and higher, and stabs it into my skull. My jaw goes slack, my thoughts get sludgy, like someone poured mud into my nerves. I pass out.

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I walk out of the beautiful room. Walk out to greet my lovely mother. Walk out to greet the lovely world. My face is beautiful, my face is perfect. I am perfect. Everything is perfect. I walk to my lovely little room. I need to dispose of things that aren’t pretty.

I stick my arm under my bed, where I know it is hidden. What a silly thing to make. I take the ugly thing out of the ugly box. I get some scissors off my pretty desk. I snip the evil away.