Skeletal

by Emma Pullar

  ‘Ms Skyla!’ he says sternly, ‘do you know what the punishment is for not having the internal?’

  I sigh and swing my legs back onto the bed. If there is a punishment for not taking the punishment the doctor is about to give out using that silver torture device, you can bet it will be something much worse.

  ‘Now, bring your knees up and then drop your legs so your knees are facing outwards, like a frog’s legs,’ he says, dipping his gloved fingers into a pot on the top of the drawers. He scoops out some clear jelly and slathers the pole with it. I do as he says, legs open, knees bent, soles of my feet touching each other.

  He pushes off with his legs and the swivel chair takes him to the end of the bed. He stands and leans forward. I close my eyes and grimace at the feeling between my legs as two slimy, gloved fingers are inserted into me. He pushes them in and out four times, obviously trying to stimulate my body so he can guide that thing inside me with ease. I do my best to think about something else, not to concentrate on what he’s doing down that end but it’s useless, he pushes the thick metal into me, further and further, I start to relax, it doesn’t hurt. He stops, waits. Click … I scream in agony and grip the sides of the bed, it’s all I can do not to kick the fucker in the face. I start to sob, the pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt, as if he shot me up the vagina with a harpoon. I cringe at the sloping sound of the lube-slathered rod being removed, I don’t feel it come out because all I can feel is the throbbing pain.

  ‘All done,’ he says, in a chirpy voice.

  I roll over onto my side and bring my legs up into the foetal position and hold my stomach. Fuck this shit. I’m getting out of here.

  6

  The Life of a Host

  Day Eight. Arms crossed, I lean on the ledge and stare out of my bedroom window. The black silhouette of the city leans against the dark sky. Moon absent, three lonely stars aren’t enough to light up the night. There’s a faint glow in the distance, I can’t imagine what it is, the slums, maybe, but they wouldn’t have power, would they? A lot can change in eight days, I wonder what I’ve missed. I sense movement. I can’t quite see it, yet I know it’s the drones, whizzing about the sky, delivering parts, parcels, and protocols to Skels around the city. Skels who aren’t even awake yet.

  Every day my motivator wakes me before sunrise, I haul myself out of a mountain of duvet and start the ritual. Today, I struggled to get out of bed, still tender from what they did to me. I managed the shower; showering is the only part of the routine I enjoy – hot water running over my back – it’s the one and only thing I’ll miss when I leave here. It would have been easier to scrub the meat stench out of my hair and skin if I’d had access to showers, instead of having to wash at the kitchen sink or in a filthy bathing block.

  The hygiene routine, like everything in Morbihan life, is excessive. I dread chemical scrub the most. I can only liken the blistering pain to sunburn. It’s to stop blemishes and unwanted hair growth, it holds back imperfections. Flays the skin off along with them, more like. Who knows what it’s doing to my skin.

  I head to the basin and reluctantly pick up the tube marked ‘facial scrub’ and squeeze a capful onto my fingers. It instantly burns and, shaking, I close my eyes and slop the gloopy grit onto my cheek, I quickly rub it over my face and then remember my dresser’s words, ‘circular motions.’ I wince as the grit tears at my skin. My eyes water, hot tears mixing in, it burns even more. I grit my teeth and hold in a scream. I don’t want to wake my masters. I splash cold water on my face and reach around for the hand towel. Every day I have to purposely burn myself! Every damn day! I gently dab my swollen skin.

  I lower the towel and stare at my reflection in the mirror. After wearing so much makeup every day, my naked face looks like a blank canvas; dull and boring and almost sickening for a splash of colour. Although I’ve been prodded, poked, and pulled about, others have it worse. I overheard a girl talking about injections yesterday. Her stylist wanted to reduce the dark circles under her eyes. The Skel admitted to being an insomniac. For Showcase, she hid the bags under her eyes with makeup, but up close her masters noticed. They’ve been injecting a toning agent under her eyes, and while she was having that done, her masters decided they’d like her breasts to be a bit larger. They want the baby to have plenty of milk when it arrives, so now she’s being injected there, too. It’s noticeable and although the girl was smiling, and saying how happy she was with her new bigger breasts, she’s stooped over, clearly in pain, her back bent like a buckled chair leg under a growing Morb teenager. She always stands slightly apart from everyone, and yesterday, when I moved past her, she turned her body to make sure I didn’t accidentally knock into her ample breasts, which, like mine and everyone’s, were partially on display and covered in glittering moisturiser.

  I’ve already moisturised this morning, slopped the cold gel all over my body and let it sink in. The floral smell is overpowering and sometimes causes me to feel nauseous, but what’s really gross is that my skin feels like it has a sticky film covering it, as if a hundred snails went for a trek across my naked body while I slept. Next, I spray my underarms with a sickly perfume and then I’m to dress in the clothes laid out for me. That’s what I’m meant to be doing now, but instead I’m standing free from my material constraints, staring longingly out of the window, pining for my old life.

  I’ve always felt suffocated by my existence, yet now I feel strangled. I used to daydream about far off places, better places. I wished I was a bird so I could fly away. The crows of Gale City never seem to leave. I wonder why they don’t? Maybe, like all of us, they’re scared to move too far from the guaranteed food source. I need the freedom to spread my wings. Being caged like this means I can’t even stretch, let alone fly. The cage is too small, the bars are too close together, the control too tight.

  I drag my shimmery body over to the dressing table and pull on the purple mess of silk which is today’s outfit. I smooth the skirt down, adjust my breasts in the bodice, and then tie the ribbon tight around my waist. The next step is hair and makeup. I’ve practised with my stylist, a High-Host called Angellyn, but I still can’t get used to applying all this slop to my face and twisting my hair in different ways to make it look appealing to my masters. I sit down on the cushioned chair and open the drawer containing brushes and colour palettes. I fish them out and begrudgingly finish the rest of my morning ritual.

  As I apply the eyeshadow I sigh to myself; I don’t think I can take another day in that cold classroom. It’s miserable. The other hosts talk about what they used to do: orchard worker, solar assistant, Sky Train attendant. They never talk to me – most won’t even look at me, even Ara. It’s like my misery is an infectious disease and if they get too close, I’ll suck the happiness right out of them. Being ignored I can handle; people never really talked to me much at the factory, but being singled out is different. The co-ordinator seems to have it in for me, she hasn’t forgotten my outburst, the bitch even asked me if I enjoyed my examination.

  Yesterday, because I wasn’t perky enough, she made take extra lessons in the evening, which involved putting on a mousy voice and repeating phases over and over while smiling until my cheeks ached.

  Yes, Mistress.

  Yes, Master.

  How clever of you.

  How interesting.

  I’m very well, thank you for asking.

  My pleasure.

  How do you do?

  I had to hold back the urge to add, go fuck yourself, in there somewhere, I don’t want another caning. The backs of my legs are bruised from all the whipping the co-ordinator dishes out, mostly to me. I have to behave, even though it’s frustrating as hell.

  In one lesson, we were given a thick book, not a touchpad, an old-style tree book. I love those. The first thing I did when it was handed to me was smell it. It smelled like forgotten happiness. I thought it was a ‘real’ handbook, not about politeness and correctness but about becoming a vessel for the creation of life, or a
guide about new-born babies. It wasn’t. The yellow book had no words in it, or pictures, for that matter. The pages were blank. We were then made to walk around the classroom in single file with the heavy books on our heads.

  Apparently, walking as if you have a carrot shoved up your backside is important. I dropped my book more than the co-ordinator could tolerate, and was caned around the back of the legs each time she heard the thud of the heavy hardback hitting the floor. She would make a point of lifting my dress to strike me, so the marks wouldn’t be seen by my host family. It took all my strength not to snatch the cane and whip her around the face with it. I can’t stand being treated like a naughty child.

  Mistress Vable pretends to be happy with my efforts but I know she’s not, she’s regretting her choice. I expect she makes allowances because she knows Master Vable is fond of me.

  When I’m satisfied I’ve done a good enough job of ‘making myself up’, I enter the lounge to find my mistress finishing breakfast. She’s up early, Mistress Vable’s not usually awake before I leave but I can’t ask her why she’s up, hosts don’t ask questions. One side of her enormous face is bathed in the soft glow of light coming from a wall lamp and the other is the dark side of the moon. She spies me, puts down her utensils and beckons to me with her fat fingers, flush with gold. She won’t be able to bend them if she piles on any more rings.

  ‘Ms Skyla,’ she says, followed by a rattling back-breath. ‘First day dressing yourself, is it?’ I nod. ‘Come closer to me.’

  I hesitate and pull down a curl near my cheek. I accidentally burned myself with the curler and I don’t want her to see the red mark on my face. She beckons more vigorously, meat-hand waving about, hanging arm-skin jiggling. I totter towards my mistress, baby steps, terrified I’ll slip on the shiny floor. I’ll never get used to these heels.

  ‘Hmm …’

  Her mechanical eye shifts around in its socket, taking in every inch of my face. I remain as still as possible, goosebumps rise on my arms, not only from the freezing air-conditioning, but also in fear of being found inadequate. It’s taken me hours to create this fakery. I had to re-do the eyeliner four times. I couldn’t get the swirls from the corners of my eyes right, and I’m sure I used too much glitter. I also poked myself in the eye, which watered and caused streaks through the foundation. I couldn’t bear to start again from scratch so I patched it up as best I could. I hope she doesn’t notice. I bring my hand up absentmindedly to chew on a nail and Mistress Vable’s painted eyebrows merge into a frown. I lower my hand. I’ve only been here eight days and suddenly I care about what I look like and what others think of me. I’m losing myself.

  ‘Turn!’ Mistress Vable shoves my bare arm with her plump fingers, scraping my skin with her false nails. ‘This bow is a mess!’

  There it is. She loves to find fault, even the smallest thing. Yesterday, I wasn’t sitting properly, I thought having my legs crossed was the right thing to do but apparently not. ‘Never cross your legs, my dear, when you’re carrying you won’t be able to, instead sit with your knees together and legs gracefully swept to one side.’

  I feel a tug at my sides. I stumble backwards a little as she pulls the ribbon tight around my waist. Her thick fingers find my arm again and I’m whirled back round to face her. I stand still, arms at my sides, unmoving, like a guard at inspection.

  ‘I suppose you’ll do.’

  Two hours of work and I’ll do? I can’t stand this woman. My foot twitches, my brain telling it to kick her off her hover-chair. I envision the ball of blubber falling to the floor, wires connecting her to her life support severed, she flails around like a helpless squid. My smile fades. Do that, and I’ll be executed.

  ‘Have some breakfast and then see to it you get to your morning class before anyone else.’

  She takes a mechanical breath and hovers out from behind the table.

  ‘Mistress Turnly thinks her host is superior to all, but we’re going to prove her wrong now, aren’t we?’

  I nod.

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  When the hover-chair is out of the room, I swipe the apple from the top of the tub marked “Host” and shove it in my knapsack. I leave the lounge, and rush out of the front door. The corridor is silent, as if the building slumbers along with its occupants. I move swiftly, light steps, trying not to clip-clop too loudly past the other apartments. But no matter how softly I tread, my shoes still make an irritating clacking sound on the marble.

  I turn the corner and in front of me are the glass doors of the shafts. The large glass doors are meant for adult Morbs; the smaller, for us. I always lean forward and look down the lit-up hover-shaft. If the doors were to open I would fall to my death. Bunce says they only open when a hover-chair approaches, so there must be some sort of sensor attached to the door that can tell the difference between legs and a hover-chair. As I move towards the smaller shaft, the doors slide open and I’m at eye-level with Bunce’s chubby face.

  ‘Morning,’ he beams.

  Bunce wears his usual rainbow inspired, Morbihan outfit. Meticulously ironed. Not a crease in his bright, headache-inducing shirt.

  ‘Stop doing this,’ I spit, as I enter the lift.

  ‘Stop doing what?’ he asks innocently, blond eyebrows rising. He knows what I’m referring to.

  ‘Walking me to class.’ I scowl, ‘just because I tolerate you doesn’t mean I like you.’

  I lean up against the cold wall opposite him. It’s creepy the way he meets me every morning without fail. Other Morbs don’t do this. I never see any other hosts being walked to class by members of their master’s family.

  ‘It’s on my way,’ he says, cheerful. ‘I thought you could do with some company.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’ The doors shush shut. ‘In future, leave me the fuck alone.’Bunce’s cheeks flush.

  ‘You mustn’t swear!’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ I snap, ‘I have enough people ordering me around.’

  ‘But if they hear you …’

  His eyes dart around the lift chamber, searching for a hidden camera or microphone.

  ‘They’ll what?’ I chew at my nail and the bitter, pink polish flakes off into my mouth. I flick it from my lip with my tongue. ‘Chuck me out or send me to Rock Vault? Gag me so I can’t run my smart mouth no more?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  Bunce hugs his backpack tight to his chest. He’s curious about me, like a small child is curious about an older child. He knows I’m not like the others, I’m a wild animal he’s been studying for the past week. He’s not meeting me out of kindness or for his sister, who he seems to despise, he truly does think there’s something wrong with me and that interests him.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with me,’ I say bitterly, ‘that’s the problem.’

  The lift bumps and my body is jarred against the hard metal wall.

  ‘The problem …’ Bunce whispers, ‘is if you keep acting like this you’ll lose your host privileges.’

  ‘Privileges! Ha!’

  My right heel slips forward, I steady myself.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Bunce says as he lowers his voice further. ‘I heard about your shenanigans in class, my sister won’t take kindly if she’s made to look a fool.’

  I lean forward, right into Bunce’s personal space. I grit my teeth inches from his piggy nose.

  ‘Fuck your sister and fuck you!’

  Bunce gasps.

  We stand in silence, Bunce staring down at his green sneakers. Afraid to look at me. I watch spectrums of light glide across his pale forehead. The metal box we ride in jolts to a stop and the doors swish open.

  ‘After you, Ms Skyla,’ he says, in a small voice.

  Eyes diverted, body hunched over, he waits for me to pass like a servant would wait for their master. I step out of the lift. I feel bad. Why do I feel bad?

  ‘Call me Skyla,’ I say, turning to look behind me, almost slipping as I step onto the marble. Damn heels!

/>   ‘Okay.’ Bunce perks up. ‘But …’

  ‘But?’ I say.

  He draws into himself again, nervousness radiates from him like heat from a fire. I really do unnerve this Morb, yet he still comes to meet me every morning.

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer I call you by your first name?’ he says.

  ‘No!’

  I grab hold of Bunce’s arm to steady myself, he shudders under my touch. I’ve scared him, the little mouse. He’s frightened of me. The guilt surges. I soften my tone.

  ‘Everyone calls me Skyla, drop the Ms, okay? It’s driving me nuts.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ he says, holding me steady.

  ‘Do what?’ I ask as I carefully place one wobbling foot after the other. My left heel slides, Bunce’s grip tightens. My knapsack swings down onto my forearm. They’ve polished the floor. It’s definitely more slippery than usual.

  ‘Say how you feel … so freely.’

  I hold Bunce’s arm. His solid frame gives me confidence and I walk a little easier. I pat his hand as a thank you for keeping me from falling, then straighten up and tug my knapsack back up onto my shoulder.

  ‘I move my lips and words come out, simple.’

  ‘I wish I could do that,’ he says woefully, ‘I can’t even bring myself to tell this girl that keeps pestering me that I don’t like her.’ Bunce looks hangdog. ‘Her name’s Kally and if I’m completely honest, she kind of repulses me … I shouldn’t have said that, please don’t tell anyone I said that.’

  He holds his hands together in a begging motion. I smile. I haven’t felt like smiling in days. I pat Bunce on the back. He tenses. Not used to human contact, or at least, not used to Skels touching him or maybe it’s just me?

  ‘I’ll keep your secrets and you keep mine, okay?’

  Under my hand, I feel his shoulders relax.

  ‘Okay,’ he smiles.

  We stay close to one another as we enter the tube, Bunce walking slowly so as not to leave me behind. I struggle along, the slippery floor and the pain from my blisters cripples my walk. Orange sunshine streams through the transparent tube and the brightness brings temporarily blindness, sunlight swallowing the city outside.