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Literature Text
February 5th, 2019 2:13 PM
"Such wonderful bone structure! Your face is marvelous darling, simply marvelous. You don't seem to age a day, do you? Be thankful for that, you'll look like you're 30 when you hit 50." My manager gushes, pretending to care, poking and prodding me like some high-grade cattle. I bet she hates me so much right now, seeing as she's 30 and looks like an old hag.
"I take it that you've been dieting and exercising as I've told you?" She continues, as she looks me over. Everything about her is cheerful, down to the smallest bone in her 5'0 body. Her office is sparse but streamline, filled to the brim with IKEA-esque glass topped tables and leather bound furnishings. It's nice, if you're into that sort of thing. She makes me sick, she's so fake; but since I'm not good at anything but looking pretty, I have to bear with her. She holds my life in her tiny hands after all.
"Yeah, yeah, I did as you said. I'm starving right now but let's cut to the chase… Do I have the job?" She looks at me, almost taken aback by my bluntness, blinking and adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses on her beaked nose. You'd think she'd be used to me after all this time; I mean we've worked together since I was 15. I'm almost 20 now. Good God woman, it's called contacts. And plastic surgery.
"Yes, well about that…" I stand, knowing what that meant all too well and not bothering to waste any more of my precious time here. Especially when I could be at home with my Corgi and a tub of Rocky Road. I try to shoulder my way past as she hastily tries to stop me. "Wait dear! They loved your look and everything, even said that you were the vision the company was looking for but you're…. let me put it in their words… 'Un-relatable,' I believe? You're the perfect look, but that's the problem."
My eyebrows shot up at that, turning to stare at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She takes my hand and pats it. I cringe. It's the pat that you give someone when you're about to tell someone that their dog just died a horrible and painful death. It took all my will power not to yank my hand away. "See, Rochelle sweetie, you're too perfect. In looks anyways. No one looks like you so no one can picture themselves as you." My knees give out on me and I sink into the constantly squeaky chair that should burn in Hell. Heck, whoever it should burn. I scowl, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Now isn't that rich? Back in the 2010 fashion magazines, girls like me were 'the look.' Now I'm obsolete?" I'm already 20, getting to the point where I'm dangerously close to the decline of my prime. This is not a good situation for a model to be in, but unless you're God, you can't stop time, no matter how much you want to. I run my hand down my face, sighing, tired. "God I need work, Margo." Margo nods, her bob waving back and forth.
"Well dear, there aren't girls like you anymore. And I know you do. That's precisely why I got you a gig on the runway," she practically purrs. I blanche and grip the chair's armrests in despair, the chair squeaking in protest. This must be payback for calling her a blind midget at that party. I wanted to punch her out so bad, but that might scrape my knuckles.
"Runway?! I thought human models weren't used in runway anymore, especially since… well you know." Oh my God, runway. Runway is an unspoken subject, taboo from any conversation. The details alone will make anyone crap their pants. It when the first fully functioning cyborgs came out, a little over 10 years ago. I was ten and I remembered how eerily human-like they looked, though their movements were jarringly mechanical. But they are the way of the future, as the cheesy commercials claim. Funny how an impromptu runway amputation will set back a progressive movement a few years. Even funnier still is how right they would be. But enough about that. This woman is definitely vying for revenge. Margo waves her hand dismissively, seating herself at her overstuffed chair, echoing through the room. Is the woman deaf as well?
"I know sweetie, but this agency assured me that their cyborgs are completely safe and run routine maintenance."
"That's comforting," I roll my eyes, plotting how I can kill her before she kills me.
"Oh come now, it's not all bad. It pays well enough." I throw up my hands. One more month out of work and I'm out of a home. I don't have the luxury to be picky. Or care about my personal well-being.
"Fine! I'll do it. Who's the agency?"
"Incorporation."
End Journal
Fast Forward…
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