Young Writers Society

Milay stared blankly at the sterile white walls that surrounded her. She was dressed in a light, loose, slip that ended two inches below her thigh. She owned nothing more clothing than that regulation slip; though she had worn more clothes than any normal human being could possibly conceive of.

She stood up and carefully navigated across the square ten foot by ten foot room that was her home, her prison. Milay stood on her manicured toes and stretched her long, lithe body so she could look out of a narrow slat in the front wall.

She peered out and to the left, down a row of identical white, square rooms. A line of track lights descended through the ceiling, bathing the open topped rooms in harsh, white light. Figures made their way down the passage, pushing huge racks of flamboyant clothes before them.

Each room was opened, clothes were flung in, and the room was closed again. Now Milay knew what was about to happen, why everyone had been so frantic; it was a show. Her ears picked up on a disco type beat being broadcast from the open-ended passage to the right as she dropped from the wall and scuttled back to the bench at her rear. The front wall split and folded in on itself with a whoosh.

“Dressing room number: 0023. Model number: 05282051. Chosen name: Milay. Height: 6’2”. Weight: 145 units of weight,” a short, balding man in a white coat read off of a chart pinned to his clip board, “You are to be ready for your cue in fifteen minutes. Someone will be there to escort you to the runway.” The man stepped out and clothing was flung in her face.

Milay’s stomach growled and the man in the lab coat frowned, tossed in a bottle of water and a packet of dietary supplements. “Fix it, now,” he said rudely and the door turned back into solid wall. She swallowed the supplements with some of the water. She longed for real food, but until she lost more weight she would get nothing more but those disgusting little tablets.

She lifted up the enormous torso piece; a synthetic minx coat, whose sleeves trailed nearly five feet across the floor. She grudgingly put it on, followed by grossly contrasting neon bellbottomed pants and a pair of horrible green elevator shoes.

Her stomach growled fiercely again and the room spun. She steadied herself on the wall and sat down for a moment. She picked up the water and chugged it down, the hot track lighting making her thirsty. Shows always made her nervous. One bad performance and you were discarded. You were simply thrown away and whatever nutrients your body still had were drained off, put into supplements. Milay allowed herself a small shudder as the wall opened.

The matron marched her out, along with about nine other females, ten males, and ten Versitals.

Milay reflected on how unfortunate the Versitals were; to live every day in sexuality limbo, your intimate parts removed and replaced with snap on prosthetics that could be changed to match any gender when supply was short. They had a melancholy look to them, as if everyday they longed for the sweet relief of death.

Milay caught herself staring at one of them. Its putrid, hairless face looked back at her uncomfortably. Its lump that served as a nose twitched nervously, its lipless mouth moved as it tried to speak; but it couldn’t, all Versitals were made mute. Her turn came. Milay moved out onto the runway, she was hit by the flashes of cameras around her. Half blinded, her hearing grew strong enough to hear the voice of her master sitting in the audience, “Yes, Milay does have a good body. Not too curvy, a nice straight shape. She’ll make an excellent specimen!”

“You mean,” another voice cut in, “That you’re going to make her Versital?”

“Yes,” the master answered, “As soon as the show is over.”

Milay’s eyes widened. She swirled around, the camera flashes hitting like bullets. She spun, finished her round, and ran right off the catwalk. No one needed to escort her, Milay ran straight back to her barracks. The walls slammed shut.

She paced around the cubical like some doomed beast. The picture of the Versital flashed in her mind, a horrible reminder of what awaited her when the matrons came to collect the clothing. She didn’t want to live like that. But once they arrived, she would be subdued and wheeled into the eerily silent O.R. When she emerged again, shaky and sick from the overuse of anesthetics, she wouldn’t be herself anymore; she wouldn’t be human, she wouldn’t be anything but Versital and that was nothing at all.

Her searching eyes found the coat; she held it in her hands and rubbed her neck. She would need to be quick so that no one would be able to stop her. Milay was uncertain of her rash decision, but as the Versital flashed in her mind again, she needed no second urging.

She expertly looped the coat sleeve over the long metal bar connecting the lights. She tied that sleeve to itself. Quickly she tested its strength, then looped the remaining sleeve tightly around her neck so she was sure it would not come undone. She climbed onto the bench and, as though she were in a trance, moved forward mechanically. Her beautiful feet left the sill and the sleeves went taut, stopping the body just inches from the floor. Milay smiled softly.

Mr. Combay walked alongside the rest of the matrons. He owned all the models in the barracks and was required to see to it that his models were in good condition, especially before surgery. He slid a card through one of the barrack walls and opened the door.

One of the more inexperienced matrons gasped but the rest remained silent. Mr. Combay shook his head and clucked softly. He was sorry for the waste of a model, and the coat too; the sleeves were ruined now and would cost him a fortune to replace. He wondered how this specimen had found out about the operation. Suicide was common amongst pre-Versital models so they were kept unawares and away from long flowing clothing. He was furious with the wardrober for this mistake; he’d have to be fired later.

He looked at the body once more and sighed, “She was a lovely specimen, but there are always more than enough. Matron!”

“Yes, Mr. Combay?” the Head Matron replied.

“What is the state of the model next door?” Combay asked.

“You mean,” she asked, “Number 05282052? He’s fine, in perfect condition in fact.”

“Good,” Combay produced a cigar from his pocket, “Prepare him for O.R. and place an order for another female. We are short a model and there’s a show tomorrow! Get on it!”

The Head Matron and the lesser matrons hurried off next door. A brief struggle ensued but they subdued the emaciated man easily. Another team of matrons arrived shortly and removed the dead model’s body. Combay was satisfied; he moved to the hallway and started towards his office, whistling a merry tune as he went.