Miss Topia

I’m tugging feverishly at the stupid tatters of white linen, ironically ugly in their symbolism of purity. The centre seam has selfishly ripped from the collar to the sleeve in my failed effort to walk upright on the way to the Judging Arena, making a firm impression on the unimpressed others. Now we wait in the sanctuary, the others milling around in outfits identical to mine; wisps of women with faces pinched into shape and stripped of makeup as not to be misleading in their appearance. My bare face flashes cherry as one lady eyeballs my peeping shoulder skin, her eyes shrieking INDECENCY as I fight the urge to let my eyes spill hotly over.

Idiot. I curse myself under my breath in an attempt to turn humiliation into anger, as if the latter will somehow fuel me to compete today. Walk, pose, smile, turn around, walk back – without tripping, which has already proven a challenge for me. The event is simple in theory, terrifying in reality; but hopeful compared to my true reality that’s festering back home.

I close my eyes and take four deep breaths, my aunt’s remedy for resetting the mind so that I can calmly achieve anything, conquer anything, fix anything. The last part is stupid but I always pretend I believe it, just in case my aunt can read my thoughts from wherever she’s ended up after death. She would hate me using a juvenile word like “stupid” so I mentally repeat my disdain for her optimism and replace it with “far-fetched”. You know, just in case.

My eyelids part and I’m back on the planet, tuning in to the gentle murmurs of my competition as they mindlessly float around like stray tissues, waiting for the clear-cut projection of a male voice to let us know it’s show time. The sanctuary is aptly nicknamed, with water fountains and buckets filled with bread rolls that are just there, free for the taking. This time last year I’d already inhaled six of them and received a plethora of dirty looks from the women who were too slow to grab one first. I was full for almost a week after last year’s pageant, best week of the year. Thanks to the senselessness of my ripped dress, however, this year my appetite has dwindled to an ignorable hole in the very base of my stomach that I will be using as yet another vice for my frustration.

“Hello, want to swap with me?” I jump a little at the unexpected loudness of her question, spinning to face Little Miss Emphatic who is already standing a little too close, and I offer a genteel smile in hopes that she didn’t catch me flinch. She stands only a few inches shorter than me, with plump cheeks, lusciously dense hair tumbling down her back and satin lips that are carved into a polite, sincere smile. Below her blemish-less face and neck are broad shoulders, perfectly balancing her wide hips and generously fleshy stomach. They are going to love her.

She gazes calmly and has no issue with eye contact, her obvious confidence shining through and further proving how perfect a candidate she really is. She studies me back as I ponder on her ideal figure for a little too long, envious that she would dare to be more physically suitable than I am.

I notice self-conscious glares erupting from others as they spot her, they too assessing her figure and pre-emptively punishing themselves for losing the competition yet another year in a row.

“I’m sorry?” I push down momentary jealousy, genuinely forgetting what she had said. She points accusingly at the demeaning rip, “do you want to swap dresses with me?” Her inquisitive tone and resolute glance claim she is genuine, but I see no reason for her to be. I involuntarily squint in my confusion, trying to justify the possibility that she is simply being kind. Unlikely really, but I study her serene profile further and find no reason to be suspicious, other than mankind’s common excuse that we are a deceptive breed.

Maybe it’s self-sabotage.

Screw it, I’ll say it out loud. “Are you trying to sabotage yourself?” Why this soon-to-be winner is offering help is beyond me, her face contorting in an unsettlingly friendly manner that makes me question if that perfect mind can read my thoughts, too.

“You don’t want them to see that scrawny shoulder, darling.” She lets me down softly. “Swap with me.”

Fine. I follow her towards the sanctuary’s nearest wall but don’t allow myself to feel relief, my face stuck in a slight scowl so she knows I’m remaining skeptical. I’ll let myself live in my pathetic delusion that I’m a tough, stubborn piece of work. In the midst of my pettiness I let my eyes wander down to her ankle so I can remember her number for when I see her on stage later. Forty-Two.

We walk a mere ten metres before hitting the wall and turning into each other, facing away from the loitering gaggle of ladies; the break of eye contact with the group the only privacy this place has to offer. Quickly, I yank my torn garment over my head and pass it towards Forty-Two, whose outstretched arm is already holding the intact dress. We keep our eyes to ourselves during this process, obviously. The only nude part of her I see is her bare forearm as I snatch her dress. Even that forearm looks perfect, nice and strong. She could probably bore triplets and carry them all at once, no struggle about it. Bitch.

I slip into the dress a little too easily, yet another reminder of my figure that will ultimately lose me the pageant, about to start any minute. The dress billows a little thanks to my lack of prominent stomach or hips, but as I finger the intact collar and sleeve I feel a small wave of gratitude. Still, I can’t let her see a crack in my already faltering disposition. This woman is my competition. I will thank her casually and dryly.

“Thanks.”

Pitiful.

My ripped dress hugs her tightly, making a statement of her curves and highlighting her physical excellence. She smiles warmly and my face smiles back before I can argue myself out of it.

“ALL CONTESTANTS INTO THE ARENA. REPEAT, ALL CONTESTANTS EVACUATE THE SANCTUARY AND PREPARE TO BE SHOWCASED IN THE ARENA.”

Forty-Two and I end up grimacing at the sheer volume of the announcement right into each other’s faces, left there from our weak moment of smiling. I’m the only one who recognises the awkwardness, immediately spinning away from her and following the other ladies suit through the hostile iron doors.

I do not look back for her or wait for her to catch up. This isn’t a team sport. That ship sunk with the 21st century, and that’s too long ago to bother trying to remember.

Myself and the herd of a hundred others trail into the arena, smoothing creases and licking our teeth to make useless last-minute touch ups to what is already a lost battle, for all but one of us. It’s up to the judge who that lucky number will be.

The arena is callous and beautiful in its four walls of concrete and steel; cold, both to the touch and in its welcome. The sense of familiarity I associate with this place doesn’t offer any comfort, yet the metallic taste in the back of my throat is an acquainted reminder that there’s always a sliver of hope. This competition is the only way I have out of the scarcity consuming home, and as I gaze across the other numbers I see the same sentiment reflected in their varnished eyes, about to trickle over with desperation.

We’re forced into our waiting seats at the back of the arena until it’s our turn to present; behind the obnoxious audience so they don’t shout at us until we’re in full view, but able to see each contestant as she presents so we can rot in the growing fear of inadequacy.

I close my eyes. It will be done soon.

I don’t think about whether or not my life will change over the next few hours, for better or worse. I don’t think about whether or not I will live to compete again next year if I lose.

“Here she is, number forty-two.”

The last forty-one contestants have blurred into a never-ending stream of snow angels against metal, tumbling down the runway to the blaring of male projections about their weight, hip size, history of family illness, etc. etc. I have kept my eyes closed for most of it, tuning out the white noise, but I snap back into the arena when I hear her name. And indeed, here she is.

Forty-Two is illuminated by backlight as she struts down the silver gauntlet, flashing a toothy grin at the crowd, who roar back in approval. I still feel pangs of envy as she reaches the end of the catwalk to raucous applause, yet suddenly I can’t help but feel the urge to cheer for her too. Of course, we aren’t allowed to make a sound, but for a minute I stop dreading the destitute life that waits and decays for me and wholeheartedly believe that Forty-Two can, and should, take the prize.

She is stopped at the crest of the runway by the handlers and the disembodied voice of a judge begins to comment on her figure. Six out of ten legs; too short. Eight out of ten breasts; not bad, but room to improve naturally with pregnancy. Eight out of ten mid-section. We all bite our lips at the nine-and-a-half out of ten she receives for her hips. I knew it.

The judge is about to begin the mental state examination to uncover a potential history of genetic “defects” that are at risk of being passed down to offspring, when Forty-Two loses her balance momentarily and steps off her mark to regain footing, accompanied by a sheepish smile to the crowd.

A handler seizes her upper arm to force her back onto the mark and a portion of shoulder skin peeks through that damned rip, which has gone unnoticed until now. The dress rips further due to the vigour she is grabbed at and a red chain slips through the gap, unravelling to reveal a heart locket that now sits calmly on her breast as it hangs accusingly out of the tear.

Silence.

Forty-Two’s face crumples. The locket gleams with sickening indictment as the entire arena is petrified. It’s like a scar, one of those lockets. Enforced by the state as a vice to separate those of us who are pure and eligible to compete, and those who are not.

She starts to panic, shoving the chain back inside the material that selfishly gives way again and again, refusing to conceal her exposed secret as her dress tears further and further.

Her dress. My dress. Shit.

The arena dissolves into a pandemonium of brutality, the audience howling in condemnation as Forty-Two is torn from the stage in a fit of cries and the lethal locket is snatched from her neck. Insults are screamed at her as the handlers throw her down and the audience is on their feet, blocking my view of her perfect, shuddering frame in white tatters on the ground.

A contestant to my left laughs bitterly, “Serves her right. Couldn’t manage to keep her lover a secret in that filthy excuse for a competition dress.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I sit there in my intact gown.

I’m so sorry, Forty-Two.

In a few minutes the chaos will subside and I’ll step onto the runway for judging. Weak, skinny and not fit to bare the children. Not fit to serve my government. I will not be rewarded once my duty is done because I will not be the winner today.

Neither will she.