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The Pretty Girls in the Magazine
Mama always said I had the most beautiful body God had ever graced the Earth with. She would take me to ballet lessons and sing me lullabies to keep my mind at rest while my body healed from the treatments. She would always take me to a special place where they could make my body even better.
“You’re gonna be a star, honey,” she would say, as she plucked out the hair from my skin.
“You’re gonna be the dream of ev’ry girl who gets the honor to hear your name,” she would sing aloud in her melodic voice.
“You’re gonna make your mama richer than the men who own our house,” she would laugh as she yelled those words.
“You’re gonna make your mama rich.”
Monday. Pray to God that he’ll hold you close as they burn your skin. They put this red gel on it, sticky as all hell; y’know mama says it makes your skin soft as the velvet our landlord made his clothes out of. Now ya see, that velvet red gel would burn my skin nearly off. But it was just perfect! Because I was gonna be a star.
Tuesday. Pluck your hairs out from your head. Get some new strands, new shade, better hue, better you for the famous folk to see. They love to keep their hair all nice and voluminous. My hair could look like that too.
Wednesdays and Thursdays. Give me a drink. Pitch black water that tastes like blood. Mama said that it keeps my body and organs real healthy. The healthy girls drink it everyday. It’s why they live so fine.
Friday. Well Friday is my favorite day. I get new eyes on Friday; in fact, I even pick the color. This week I’m picking bright, sun set orange, ‘cause it’s a special week. Some girls pick brown, ‘cause they poor. Some girls pick blue, ‘cause they stupid. But the pretty girls… they always pick orange. Those pretty girls on my magazine. They catch your eye.
Saturday. It's fun, ‘cause I don't eat. And when I do, Mama hands me a little cup to throw out my mistakes and temptations. The skinny girls, the ones on my magazine, they don't eat on Saturdays. Ev’ry one knows that.
Sundays. Sundays I sleep. ‘Cept this is a special Sunday. My Mama shouted my name,
“Oh, Angel! Come here to Mama!”
I shouted back, “O’ course, Mama. I’m here.”
“Baby Angel, you know today is a special day. And you know you’s a pretty girl. The prettiest girl o’ them all.”
“I know, Mama. You made me so pretty.”
“All you’s gotta do, my beauty, is hop on in the car, and someone’s gonna buy you.”
“I’ll be just a second, Mama!” I shouted with the purest joy any bird ever sung, any angel had ever trumpeted, any dreamer had ever dreamed. I ran into the bathroom and turned off the light as I imagined how I looked. I’m gonna be sold. I’m gonna be bought ‘cause people like my body. I’m gonna be on the magazine with all the rich, famous, healthy, pretty girls I loved to stare at. Everyone will stare at my beautiful body and want to look like me. I bet they’ll sell me for more than anyone else. My Mama’s gonna be rich. Richer than the owners. Richer than the poor girls. Richer than we used to be when I was ugly. But now.
Now I have become beautiful! The light flashes on, shining like the brightest sun until I saw that ugly beast. That sick monster in that mirror. That monster, that creature, that repulsive demon from hell that stared back to me from that goddamn mirror. I turned off that light; turned it off so I didn't have to see the beast. My skin I felt. It was BEAST’S skin. Not soft enough. My eyes were blood red. Not bright enough. My hair was clumped. Not perfect enough. My waist had curves too wide. Not skinny enough. No no no! It was a beast in the mirror yet again. That pig in the mirror from my head. That monster in the mirror I dreamt of. That animal that magazines were free of.
“Mama, fix me up again. I gotta be like the pretty girls in the magazines.”
Published 9th Sep 2018
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