Beauty is Pain

“I fold.”

Tattered cards fell from my hand. I leaned back, a little too relaxed for someone watching their food rations be scooped up from the centre of the battered table.

“No fight in you today, Matthews?”

A laugh, huffed under my breath as I replied,

“You need ‘em more than me.”

In truth, we all needed them. We slaved for them. They were our reward. A prize provided for our service. A glimpse into the inner workings of this place; obey their rules, accept what is given to you. Do these things and we’ll get to eat. A generous trade-off considering the state of the outside.

“Well, I won't refuse these.” He shoved the rations into a pocket, “not when I won ‘em fair and square.” At that, Davis leaned back on his chair,

“You only won ‘cause Brock wasn’t here to kick your ass.”

Brock had been called a while back, no one had seen him since. It was quieter without his thunderous laugh echoing across the cafeteria, without his flirtatious comments that always earned him a swat from the lunch lieutenants. He had always said he wanted to go outside, feel the sun against his skin. Jokingly commenting “the burns can’t be that much worse.”

They could, of course.

My eyes roved across the room, seeking out a substitute for Brock’s absence. That’s how it works. Everyone is replaceable. They have to be. We give ourselves to the cause and, once there’s nothing left to give, we are called away and a new subject takes our place. The cycle of life.

Of all the uncomfortable sights within the room, there was one I truly couldn’t stand to dwell on: that damned poster. I could stare endlessly at the missing limbs, hastily sewn up scars and eyes so cloudy they resembled curdled milk. But that poster…it instilled something new, something different, something profoundly discomforting. I had always thought it was an overused cliché; ‘the eyes would follow you.’ But here, in this place, it was all too accurate. It wasn’t just the feeling of your skin prickling under someone else’s scrutiny, that was almost comfortably familiar, it was the poster’s beady eyes, analysing us. Its words; a patriotic veiled threat. We need you. Your bodies. Your cooperation. We thank you for your service. They will take what they need, no questions to be asked. We were to obey.

It wasn’t just them, the world needed us, our ‘services’. We were more than happy to volunteer, to provide a service for the greater good. Of course, we weren’t told till much later, that ‘services’ was much more physical. But it was for their own good; civilisation that is, our families, friends, co-workers. They needed this.

Us.

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The doors opened, as they did every turn of the sun. Same time, same scrape, same shout; showers now. It was nice of them, allowing us showers. Not hot, never hot. Not even a dejectedly lukewarm temperature, just blisteringly high pressured and ruthlessly cold. To wake us up they said.

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I stepped out of the cubicle, shivering, bracing myself for the next stage. I always hated this part. Needing to dry myself, warm myself, stem the flow of freezing water droplets from my hair, but dreading the towel on my body. I hated the towel. They were scratchy, always harsh against my newly healed, oftentimes scabby skin.

“The hell, they even clean these?”

I shrugged. Better to not respond to questions here. Most the newcomers don’t like the answers anyway. Their unfulfilled curiosity will eventually bring them blind acceptance to their situation. They’ll learn, like we did. Like I did.

“Matthews. Report to Hall S-19.” I straightened; the towel looped around my waist. The orderly hovered in the doorway. They never came in. Even when the occasional man would slip, the sound of skin and bone resounding through the shower block, they would remain in the doorway until the designated employee arrived to assist. That’s the way it was here. Everyone had their place, and within that place a job, and within that job a preconceived status.

It was freeing, knowing your place. Easier to anticipate the comments coming your way.

“Matthews. Now.”

I moved, out of instinct more than individual intent. That was the tone. The signal of obedience that our bodies had long since been conditioned to obey.

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S-8, S-9, S-10. I followed the orderly, taking care not to bump into the flurry of staff that frequented these halls. They wouldn’t appreciate it. I wouldn’t much care for it either. The fabric rubbing against my skin is pain enough. Not that I am ungrateful for the gift they granted me, I am. Thankful that is. They didn’t need to give us a shirt, or clothes. They mentioned that a lot. Fabric was a luxury. No matter how low the thread count.

“Pick up the pace, Matthews.”

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My eyes burned, straining to make out shapes in the haze of the room. The feeling of icy steel against my wrists overpowered all other senses. I knew what was to come. It was standard procedure, as I was told, to keep us calm. Five minutes and it would fade. Then precisely three minutes, thirty-three seconds and they would commence.

There was a new sound today. Clicking, clacking, alternating. The steel begun to dig in my wrists as my body rose to see its source, but I didn’t feel it. Feeling in the wrist was always the first thing to go. It was nice of them to do that for us. The struggle against our bindings is less painful when you can’t feel it.

A figure solidified in my vision. She was new. I hadn’t seen her before. A snap of her fingers and the lights flashed on. My eyes squeezed shut involuntarily, reflexively, guarding me against the sudden harsh brightness of the room. An arm shoved against my bindings, the intent clear; show your respect. I slowly opened my eyes, squinting as her heart-shaped locket glinted under fluorescent lights. I found myself entranced. We didn’t see beauty down here. Metal was for one purpose: restraint. But this…she wore metal like a prized possession. It was around her neck, but not painfully tight. It hung, but not weighed down not like the shackles we were required to wear.

“You like it?” Her voice was soft. Beautiful. Like her. Flawless. Ethereal.

“Wh-what is…is it?”

“A gift.” She smiled; perfect white teeth revealed. I found myself squinting again.

“Matthews is one of our oldest.” The doctor behind me supplied, hands wound tightly behind his back as he bowed slightly. A form of deference. I tried to smile, tried to make myself look pleasant, it felt foreign, unpractised.

“So you are whom I’m to thank?” Her head tilted to the side. She seemed mesmerised by my appearance, her eyes flitting up and down my form.

“Thank…me?”

“Oh, of course. And your fellow- how shall I put this? Fellow…roommates.”

I looked at her blankly. Our services were for the government. For the war. I knew that, we all knew that. It was on that poster. The damned poster I walked past every day to Hall-S. We need you. Your bodies. Your cooperation. We thank you for your service. Maybe she was from the war office. She exuded supremacy in every motion; authority heavily overlaid in her tone.

“Are you…are you a soldier?” I asked, my body wincing, trained by experience to expect a physical reprimand. We shouldn’t ask questions. I sensed movement in my peripheral, the doctor no doubt primed to discipline. But she raised a hand, not to harm, but to halt his onslaught. I know I am to thank her, a proper response, but my starved eyes are drawn to her metal rings, shining under the light. The carelessness at which she willingly applies metal to herself, as decoration. A celebration. Rather than a tool to elicit pain.

“You seem confused.” Her eyes lit up. “Silly me, of course you wouldn’t know.”

I fidgeted. My body, having been conditioned to endure agony in this chair, was unsure of what to expect.

“There is no war.” To the doctor she said, “the work you’ve done on their memories is astounding.” She leaned forward, analysing me. I knew that look. That look came before the announcements. Before the next round of testing. Before they would tell me the part of my body they needed next.

This was familiar. This was comfortable. My body could anticipate this.

“Your sacrifice has been appreciated.” At the word ‘sacrifice’, her eyes dipped to my arms, the burns that littered them. “Without you, there could be no beauty.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course not, you were never meant to.” She leaned back and crossed her legs, a vision of confidence and superiority. “I suppose I could enlighten you. It is your last test, correct Doctor?”

“Last test?” I interrupted. My apprehension about questions sidelined by an unexpected bubbling of uncontrollable curiosity.

“No one does this forever.” She rested her hand on the locket, her lips pursed as if considering explaining to a subject. “I am beautiful. A perfect expression of human physicality. The supreme being, some say.” She must have perceived a level of derision on my face as she continued. “I say this not out of vanity. My physical attractivity stems as a result of the experimentation and scientific research of this very institute.”

“I thought- isn’t this for the war?” I ask weakly. My thoughts were spiralling, unused to an influx of new information. I had an inkling of understanding, a suspicion forming out of her eloquently pronounced words, a growing agitation in my gut.

“I suppose, it is a war against sub-par beauty. In less enlightened times, beauty and intellect were like oil-and-water. But now, with you, your sacrifice, your service, that war has been won. Genetics no longer determines physical attractivity.” She stroked her cheek. “I once was inadequately blessed with beauty, not ugly, but certainly nothing impressive. Yet, the research conducted, the procedures and substances perfected here, fixed me. Completed me.”

Everything in me tightened. I felt exposed but not as I was accustomed to. The sacrifice, the dutiful obedience, the belief I was saving lives, stripped away under her gaze. I struggled, wrists chafing against the steel.

“You used us. This. Us. Our bodies.” Thoughts raced, too fast for me to express. Too difficult to dwell on, to articulate beyond garbled phrases.

“That is your job. Your place in society.” Confusion flickered across her expression.

“So all of this.” I tried to gesture to my scars, the physical expressions of the cost, of the techniques used. “All my pain was for your beauty?”

She stood and I immediately regretted my words. That is not how you spoke. Not to those above you. Never to them. Yes, she allowed questions, tolerated them, but insubordination was inexcusable. I shrunk, my body straining to close in on itself, despite the restraints. My mouth open, ready to express my apology.

“I believe that’s enough for today.” Gesturing to the doctor, “You may begin.”

I tensed, as the machine begun. My body was unprepared, the situation was skewed, altered by her revelation. Before, I had my ideology, my naive innocence shrouding me, protecting me, giving me reason to endure the pain. Needles pierced my skin, my state of mind heightening the sensation. I strained; nerves no longer muted by my ignorance. It hurt. Unbearably. Everything throbbed, thumping in sync with my heart. I scrunched my eyes shut, desperately clawing for a semblance of that endurance I once had, of the blissful ignorance they had originally granted me. Through the haze of my agony, I could hear her mocking words, a twisted expression of our mantra:

“This…is for my greater good.”