THE ART OF RESISTANCE

By Abigail Cervantes

She exists as a beam of light that people gravitate toward. She is light, she is perfect, and she is ethereal. She doesn’t own her own skin but rather exists to make it appear alive—to appear human. She is always something to someone. Eyes glaze over her, the only emotion present in their depths being the delighted gleam at her beauty. 

She’s used to it. She knows she no longer exists as a person but as an asset. Hands touch over her, pulling at her hair, tracing the curve of her lip. A needle sews at her dress, the hands delicate on her hip, careful not to harm the vessel she lives in. Voices chatter, heard from her central point on the chair, and she exists in their words. A name that she once knew but no longer associates with. A stranger.

She looks forward. A mirror. Her face is painted white, and she studies the expression painted onto it—one that she does not own but was chosen for her; a mask placed to cover authenticity. It’s shocked—mournful. She wonders if her face would appear the same if she pulled an expression of her own. Would she be as sad as the visage staring back at her? Would she be as surprised? Would her eyebrows be as comically creased, or would they have a subtle furrow? Would her lips be small and pursed or thick and supple? She wonders.

She doesn’t like wondering.

Hands circle her neck. She uses the mirror to look at the person clasping a necklace and wonders if they know she thinks of it as a collar. The coldness of the gems resides on her decolletage. She resists the urge to shudder. 

She doesn’t like wondering.

More hands. More collars. More resisting. She begins to feel her leg tremble. Eyes move towards it. She forces it to stop. 

More hands. More collars. More resisting. She feels her fingers twitch. The woman working on her hair pauses, briefly. She pushes the instinctual movement down. 

More hands. More collars. More resisting. There are bugs in her hair, crawling down her neck so that they play in the dip of her collar bones. The urge to scream builds. She resists. 

Eyes are on her. The heat of the gazes is similar to the beam of the sun. Uncontrollable sweat builds on her hairline. The man painting her skin white presses on the droplet, swipes it away. She shudders. 

The collar tightens, her leg starts to shake, her fingers begin to tremor, and the bugs have infested her body. She looks at herself in the mirror. Multiple eyes are looking back. She lets out a shuddery breath. 

She is light, she is perfect, she is ethereal.

She screams.