A New Me

I watch the doctor through my good eye. I can't decide if I like him or not. He's handsome, I guess, even though he's probably old enough to be my dad.

It's beyond ridiculous for me to be thinking like this, though. Not just because of his age. Or the fact he's a doctor. My doctor, actually. One of the most senior ones in the hospital, and he always comes and talks to us personally.

No, it's because I'm hideous. I know a lot of people say that when what they really mean is, "please tell me I'm pretty". Some people really do believe it about themselves, too. Mum says social media is to blame.

But, me? I used to think that before the accident. Back when I looked... ordinary. Now I really am hideous. Objectively. On the outside. Since the... accident.

My face is an absolute mess of skin grafts. I've had so many surgeries in the last two years, I've lost count. I'd give anything to go back to just looking ordinary. Anything. Almost.

I think I would have preferred a more ordinary looking doctor. The squareness of his face, and the plushiness of his lips is unnerving to me. I don't fancy him or anything. I feel self conscious a lot, and it's not fair for him to stand there making me feel worse.

He looks so smart. He doesn't wear a white coat like the other doctors. He always wears a suit, and I don't know anything about fashion or anything like that, but this one looks really expensive. Everything he wears looks expensive.

His hair is neat and short, and his teeth are very white and very even. He shows those teeth a lot when he smiles, but it looks fake to me. Like an infomercial. His voice is pleasant, but that doesn't sound real, either. It sounds like he has practised exactly how to speak - the speed and pitch and volume and everything - so that he sounds nice, and reassuring, but also confident, only nearly arrogant (not quite), and only a little bit patronising.

For a second, I'm transported to his space ship, where he is turning the dials, and using his slimy fingers to drawing levels up and down the screens.

increase authoritiveness by 16%

increase warmth by 9%

increase charm by 10%

increase charm by 27%

speech optimised for senior doctor (human; Earth)

The glare and glitter of the ship is real to me for that second, more real than the smooth man talking at me. It helps that the hospital is so new, and everything is so shiny and high-tech, but mostly it's just a quirk of mine. Or a talent, maybe, I don't know. Mum has always said I have a "wonderful imagination". My dad says, I'm "off on one". I can feel his eyes on me. He's thinking it right now. Mum isn't looking at either of us. She's looking at Dr Kennedy. (When he came in the room, she patted and smoothed her hair down. I saw.)

Dr Kennedy is still speaking, still pouring his voice into the space between us, and boring into my eyes with his, as if this will hook my attention, and fasten it to the flow of words he's throwing at me.

In the corner of my good eye, I see Mum's hand squeeze Dad's. He squeezes right back. Then she says,

"Susie? Are you listening to Dr Kennedy, honey? Did you understand what he said? He said that the donor is a good match for you. Same blood type, same race, so the skin tone is almost an exact match, and nearly the same age."

"I was listening," I say. Some part of me was, sure. I space out and let my imagination go crazy sometimes, but it's only for a second here and there. It takes much longer to describe it than it takes to do it.

"How old is she?" I want to know.

I'm going to wear a dead girl's face.

Mum swallows. I can't see it, I can't even hear it, but I can see it happening in my head so vividly, it might as well be real. She clears her throat.

Dr Kennedy swoops in again, with that voice like a firm handshake drizzled with warm butter.

"She's fifteen," he says.

I'm sixteen. Sixteen and a half, actually. This is good, right? Basically anti-aging. There's a billion ads for that kind of thing on TV all the time. Mum has got all kinds of creams and lotions and collagen supplements and fillers and all sorts. And here I'll be, with a face a little bit younger than the rest of me. Maybe when I'm super old, like thirty or something, I can get in another horrible accident and need another teenager's face to...

"Honey?" Mum is prompting me again, and I scowl, which they can't tell because of how messed up my face is anyway, and force myself to concentrate.

Dr Kennedy is holding a cardboard file. It looks quaint, here in this modern place where every member of staff seems to have a tablet in their hand. He flips it open, slides out a photograph, and hands it to me. Our hands touch. Just for a moment. They aren't slimy, like in my day dream. Just warm and smooth. Really smooth. I wonder how many lotions he has in his dresser, and then I realise I'm spacing out again, and force myself to look down at the photograph in my hand.

It's of a girl, of course. My donor, maybe. Could be. Just her head and shoulders. It looks like she's wearing a P.E. kit; navy and pink. Barefaced, without makeup, she naturally looks ... well, beautiful. More beautiful than I ever was.

Her hair long and shiny, and the colour of pale honey. Mine is thinner, and shorter, with no natural wave like hers, and it's a dull brown. Nearly black, (which might be more interesting) but not quite. I remind myself that I'm not getting her hair, and try to imagine her face under my hair. It's hard. I focus on her skin, her complexion, her nose, and wield my "wonderful imagination" to stretch that over my skull. What will that look like?

Not me.

Back when I looked ordinary, I might have jumped at the chance to have this face. Now it's being offered to me, and... what? My throat closes up and goes dry. I can't force words out of it. Maybe a sip of water will help, but I'm holding the picture in both hands and when I try to let go so I can reach for my cup, those muscles aren't working either.

She doesn't look like me, so I won't look like me.

"Well, hon?" Mum asks. "What do you think?"

"She's beautiful," I manage to croak.

I've already agreed to the surgery, and now I've approved of the face they are offering. Can I back out, now? Do I want to? Do I want to be stuck like this? What even is my problem?

My parents are discussing things with Dr Kennedy, and this time I really am barely paying attention. My brain is spiralling, thoughts splintering off into an impossible tree of "what-ifs". What if my body rejects the new face? What if I reject it? What if it's just too weird walking around wearing somebody else's face? What if I can't handle the John Travolta jokes? What if I...

Snippets of the conversation filter through to me.

...on life support...

....a lot of internal damage...

...best if we act quickly...

Great. I was going to ask for more time to think about this. It looks like that might not be an option.

Do I want this or not?

For a horrifying moment, I am frozen in indecision. The horrifying part is that the decision roars on around me and over me anyway. Like a tide sweeping me away no matter what I want. I open my mouth to stop it, but it's still sandy and tight... and I realise that, while I'm not, like, totally sure that I want this new face... I am sure that I do want a face, and I don't want what I have right now.

Letting it happen seems like the most logical choice. I give in to the tide of voices lapping at me and overlapping, exchanging information, setting the choice in stone. I stretch my mouth into what passes (for me) as a smile and try to shake off my unease. It's surgery, right? That's scary, okay? Everyone gets a bit scared before a big surgery. It's normal.

Right?

My wild imagination has taken up residence in my belly. It's fluttering and writhing as if trying to get my attention. I ignore it, keep my smile in place, and try to tune my ears and brain to what the doctor and my parents are saying.

Tomorrow, I will be a whole new me.

+++++++

Thank you for reading!

It's been a while, hasn't it? I switched jobs and I am doing a lot of split shifts now, which has taken an absolute mountain of adjustment. Bear with me while I ease myself back.