Faked Reality

• Andrea Malm, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2016

The car was dark and too full. A normal vehicle would only hold this many people if they were not meant to be there, but all 10 patrons were meant to be here, and they all looked too exquisite for a regular event of any kind. But this wasn’t a regular event at all, and these people were as far from trafficked people as humanly possible.
Head to toe, there was an array of sequins and glitter and bright colours. The lavish ladies look so different, but they were the same. I felt as fake as I looked, because no one wears this every day. I stared at my feet. My poor, poorly rich feet. The sparkle of my nail polish poked out from under the jet black heal, a tiny hole at the end of the toe. That was the only glitter that had meaning to me. The matte black shoes had a too-high-heel on them, slim and pointed and menacing. My feet were aching and I hadn’t stepped a centimetre in these monstrosities.
Most of my foot was exposed, the whole top of my foot bare, only the toes and the slightest section of the end of my foot were as modest as I had wished for my feet. And my legs. And my stomach. And my arms. And my face. At least my face was covered, but by someone else’s.
My skirt didn’t reach my knees, but I’ll admit, it was a better length than my last dress. It was already a metallic ash colour, like a glorified burnt stick. I guess that’s what I was to these people, an object to be changed for prettiness. There were sparkles and glitter everywhere, like I was an elongated disco ball.
They wouldn’t cover my tummy. I hated that. “Best Abs in Hollywood” was the only semi-true headline I had ever read about myself. Sure, I was fit, I cared about my health, but my muscle poking out was not something I wished was flaunted about myself.
Thank goodness my chest was covered. The thought of my bare chest being seen by anyone was a thought that was a nightmare and a half. No horror film could depict that. Not even by Hitchcock.
My arms had nothing. My shoulders had no strap. My skin had no life. My face had no meaning. Two hours in a chair while adult face-paint was thrust upon me. Three hours walking down one street to choose something that looked as fake as it was, yet it cost more than a tank of petrol and the ice cream to clear the disastrous scent from my car.
My face was there, but it was not seen. Another person, that was this was. Like another movie, like another role, I stepped out of the car beside the boy who said I was his “babe”. I was no one’s “babe”. The cameras flashed and people screamed instructions on where to look and how to stand. This was not me, this could not be my life. Desired by hundreds, my lifestyle was in the flashing spotlights hitting me now. Every move I made tonight was captured, and every move I make tomorrow will be captured.
What a life I am living.