Perspiration gathered on her forehead, as she awoke - relieved to discover the nightmare of an atrocious disaster was dismissed by the reassurance of her home comforts. Thick saliva lined the inside of her mouth, leaving only enough moisture to let the painkillers slide down her throat. Dropping back into a slouched state, she closed her eyes, anticipating liberation from her pain. Hours passed, where she was encompassed in a vacuum of excruciating agony, only accompanied by her own will power, which even at times seemed to desert her. He reassured her that she will come out of this so much more beautiful – which is true. But she’ll come out wiser, and surer of herself.
Or so she thinks.
She doesn’t remember much of the surgery, only the four beds that had lay in front of her, all composed of the same steel frames and grey mattresses. As she gained consciousness, her muscles tensed - she only yearned for one thing. ‘Where’s my husband?’ she groaned. The doctors’ chuckles were followed by a heavy cough, as the smell of smoke and bleach lingered. The gossip from the old nurses paused, as she was met with disconcerting frowns and was informed that he’d gone out but would come and collect her later. She smiles and nods, knowing she shouldn’t have put expectations on his demanding schedule. The surgery lasted 5 hours, yet she only remembers the artificial warmth of his hand in hers, stroking her tender limbs as he relaxed her with talk of their picturesque future, whilst she was sent to a sunken place. Then, woken in a daze, the doctor proclaimed the thirty incisions he made on her body with pride. Waiting felt like an eternity, with nothing to do but stare at the un-even configuration of the ward’s tiles, or the peeling varnish of the door handle. All so imperfect. Charts above the girls’ beds stated their operations. Despite her efforts to unwind, unavoidable exchanges of nosy glances through thin curtains kept her alert. She squinted at the chart in front of her, just enough where she could make out:
BREAST AUGMENTATION, RHINOPLASTY
Tugging at the coarse covers, she pressed the button that reclined her bed, wanting to avoid the judgments she felt her way; knowing her chart read the longest. She just wanted to go home.
-
It was usually her calling him down for dinner at this time. But now, her abilities only extend to a staggered walk to her home’s en-suite and applying cream to her bed sores. Reliant on him – that part hadn’t changed. Her shivering lessens, as she pulls satin sheets up to her chest, and flicks through the glossy pages of Women’s Weekly. Puff powders, lipsticks and mascara are now accompanied by capsules and bandages. Makeup had become a new requirement in her married life, raised by a mum proud of her scars and battle wounds. Yet the final battle appeared to be too strong, leaving her child alone to face a society that pressures women to obtain a certain level of beauty. At least she was fortunate enough to get married. Every so often, a certain noise or aroma would invoke memories of her dark childhood, where she understood nothing but struggle. Now her nails remain polished, her skin; moisturised, but most importantly, she is safe - she owes it all to Richard. Her stained-glass windows, that usually gleam with polish had been shut for weeks, covered with thick curtains whilst the sound of daytime TV and radio blend into harmonious dull, just as her days did. Only magazines and her husband kept her company - when he could. He was driven by an ego centric world, where a man of stature should have a woman beside him of ageless beauty. All of these aspirations pressured not only him but also her, to defy ageing to such an extreme, that risk followed. ‘Diamonds are formed under pressure’ he’d reassure her, driving her to countless consultations. Fear always lingered in her mind, replacing late nights of embraces and sweet dreams with restless cuddles and sweats. Yet with a mischievous smoulder and eyes that made her feel protected, he could always have her how he wanted. He had lived a life longer than her, as she was constantly reminded, as he would turn her uncertain proclamations to excitement.
Despite the musty aroma in the room and her unsightly bruises, she still sat as upright as she could; in a desperate attempt to contain her meek and fragile disposition. Richard liked to see her confident. The door creaks open, slowly letting in leaks of light around his tall frame, attempting to quietly sneak in,
‘Open the window, it reeks in here’
Her cheeks flushed red beneath sweat-soaked bandages, as she hastily brushes aside the magazines on her bed,
‘Sorry honey, I missed you!’.
A crisp, navy shirt stands out against his magenta belt and tailored trousers. Her extended arm is not met by her husband’s lustful kisses, but a cold plate of fillet mignon and pan-fried asparagus – Richard’s favourite. The composition of the dish sparked memories of the ready meals that her mother would insist were home cooked. Forcing tough meat down her throat whilst giving him the smile she can manage; she reminds herself that she’s nearing her full recovery. His eyes were too amused by the contents of his screen to meet her loving gaze, scrolling through his phone as she ate. He snickered; his smirk intensified by the phone’s light. Although she had learned to accept his constant state of distraction, her time with him had only decreased since the operation, as he became overwhelmed with the extent of her required recovery and underwhelmed by her lack of physical capabilities. She yearns for his touch, as she contemplates what she can do to finally get his attention. Or any form of response...
‘I think we can take my bandages off now’
Met by his intense and deep look, he places his hand around her waist, gliding over unhealed wounds - she holds in her wince. His tone was concerned yet curious,
‘Are you sure?’
A small nod is enough to convince him, as he shuffles out of his blazer and starts to pull her up. His tongue hangs out of the corner of his mouth, like a dog awaiting dinner. Yet she had barely convinced herself, ignoring the remainder of her medication on her dresser, as the air began to cool. This was what he had been waiting for; to see his wife in her perfect form. Silver arches outlined the full body mirror, specs of gold glistening in anticipation. Every step was followed by a pulsating beat, bursting underneath her veins. Stepping toward her, he began unravelling the bandages protecting her. Eyes shut, she breathed out slowly, enjoying the feeling of the breeze grazing across healing skin. His touch was heavy against her tender frame, but it was his touch, nonetheless. Making his way up her body, her silhouette was a shadow in the low-lit room. He dragged the curtains open, ready to see the improved version of her he had been envisioning for years. And as the final bandage was pulled from the sticky surface of her cheeks, her eyes began to flutter, struggling to adapt to the new beams of light around her.
But her awaiting stare was not greeted by the adoring gaze of her lover, but a man scorned, eyes screwed, and his fist pushing against pursed lips. The blood-soaked bandages fell to the ground, as he stumbled back, leaving her in a hue of orange and yellow light, illuminating her incisions. Her breath began to quicken, as she turns to the mirror –
The figure opposite was unrecognisable.
A weak, frail body covered in patchy lumps and wobbling stitches stood, hunched over, lumps protruding from her breasts and behind. Skin hung from every bone of her frame, as if unequipped to deal with the volume of filler that inhabited it. Lips that were previously supple were now bursting at the surface, their tips meeting its new, drooping nose. The same nose that her love had kissed, now only a bumpy, lopsided entity, was accompanied by blotches of peeling skin and triangular cheeks. And as she turned back, desperately craving reassurance from him, her cries were only received with yells of horror and frustration, his face; regret personified. In shock, she stumbles, her pale hands grazing his shirt, giving him barely enough time to step even further away. Forgetting the floor, she lunges forward,
‘Richard - Please! Say something! Don’t go-’
But only the dissipating echo of his footsteps respond, as that deep navy shirt becomes a hazy, shrinking vision, and his silver studded ring left alongside crusted bandages clouds her sight. Her numb lips are concealed by the familiar taste of salty slashes – the only thing recognised anymore.