Pretty

“We’re leaving in ten!” He calls from the other room.

I don’t bother responding. I tap my fingers on the bathroom counter, scrutinizing my reflection. I think I’ll do blue eyes today. No—green. Perfect.

I plug in my beauty products, and gulp down a concoction of coffee and little white pills. The Dyenator 300 pings with a green light. I stretch my eyelids taut so the Dyenator’s microneedles can search for my irises. I spasm when the needles kiss the wet flesh then hammer into the tender tissue.

I screamed the first time I tried it.

My eye sockets felt as if they were melting away. But afterwards, like now and every time in between, seeing the mud brown eyes I’ve always hated melt away to a vibrant green made the pain a whisper of an afterthought.

Eyes still burning, I start on my hair. I flick through the implant options on my phone and find the long golden waves I was looking for and hit Upload to the Plate! Tufts of hair stab hotly through my scalp, and I wince. In a puff of processed plastics, flowing locks of gold drape across my shoulders. You get used to the synthetic smell.

All that’s left is my new product. The one he bought. I take a few steadying breaths as I stare at it. It’s easier to slip on than it should be, the corrector securing tightly around my waist with a single tug. I set the dial to hourglass beauty, and the iron corset begins to push in around my lower ribs and waist. My fingernails scrape against the bathroom countertop as the pressure increases, forcing the breath out of my lungs. I bite my lip as I fight through the panic, hysteric thoughts bubbling as I remind myself I’m fine, this is okay, I’m going to be so beautiful after this—

A rib pops. Then another. A scream wrenches from my throat. Air catches, my chest locking around the pain.

I’m on my knees when the corrector finally releases its hold. I’m reaching blindly for another handful of pills when my eyes land on my reflection in the mirror.

I see a doll. The same doll I had when I was young, one pulled apart by our family dog and stitched back together with spare parts, over and over again. I haven’t seen the doll since. But now—

His low voice echoes once more through the doorway. “Hey, you ready yet?” he asks.

I’m thankful that the Dyenator singed my tear ducts shut a long time ago. Because instead of tears coming from this unfamiliar face in the mirror, it’s a smile. A wide, white smile, one that never quite reaches my red-lined green eyes. But he won’t notice.

“I’m ready!”