Skeletal

by Emma Pullar

  She turns back to the front, her puff of hair bobbing as she strains on tiptoe to get a glimpse of the other girls. I stare back at the only girl in the room who seems to have hips.

  ‘Pink!’

  I snap out of my daydream. Did Chester point to me? I look around nervously for help but the other girls are walking away, towards their stations. I hurry to catch up with Chester, who is half my height and yelling colours at girls as he passes down the line.

  ‘Um … Mr Stout.’ I say, not loud enough for even an ant to hear.

  I awkwardly bump into three girls trying to get past me and to their table.

  ‘Chester!’ I say, a bit louder.

  ‘Yes, young lady?’ He cranes his short neck backwards to look up at me.

  ‘I didn’t hear my colour.’

  He looks down at the pad.

  ‘Ms Skyla, isn’t it?’

  I nod.

  ‘Pink.’ he says and walks off.

  I glance around like a nervous mouse. Potential guards are seated at different stations, hosts line up at others. I see a large glittery pink sign and hurry through the crowd, excusing my way to the table. I’m the last one there.

  High-Host families sit huddled together behind the tables, smiling, pointing at the crowd of hopefuls, quietly nattering amongst themselves. They ooze over each other’s clothes and jewellery. They wear conservative colours, not nearly as flamboyant as Morbs yet they disgust me just as much. Traitorous try-hards! Some have even bleached their children’s skin as well as their own, desperate to fit in with the Morbs, to be more like them and less like Skels.

  Andia once told me that after the host duties have been carried out, the host and her link partner are reassigned to ‘higher jobs’ or ‘clean jobs’, like teachers, shop assistants, or librarians, while Skels continue to do the dirty work. If you don’t become a host, the next big career leap you can hope for is to work as a servant inside the Morb complex – a system of apartments interconnected by tubes. Somewhere in there is ‘The Hub’, a swanky estate where the High-Hosts live. I’ve already decided I don’t want to live with those people. I’d decided before I left work, but the sight of them has confirmed my position. I’d rather blow my brains out than associate with these fakes.

  I watch the other hopefuls and imagine them all swollen-bellied and useless. Some die in childbirth, the kids kill them on the way out. The Morb maternity unit is safer than birthing at home like Skels do, there’s a higher chance of survival but nothing is 100% and I've heard stories of pain so bad girls think they’re dying, some are ripped almost in two by the new life forcing themselves free of them. Post-pregnancy, some girls shit or piss themselves every time they sneeze or their bowels open without warning. Not to mention the sagging sack of stomach flesh you’re left with. Some are untouched, no sagging, no tears, but most are not.

  Why would anyone in their right mind want this? Who cares if Morbs live or die. We don’t need them. Though I wouldn’t want to be pregnant, even without Showcase. Kids are cute, but a curse. I've never wanted them and I don’t want to carry them. I’ve seen mothers starve themselves to feed their young, and how are they repaid? If they’re lucky the kid will grow up decent and look after them in their old age; if not, their sacrifice was for nothing.

  If I get picked, what spawns from me will not be my child. The creature that slithers from my body, the screaming white blob, it won’t belong to me, it’ll belong to them, my masters. I don't want that thing inside me. I already feel used. Using hosts seems wrong to me, like using someone else’s oven so you don’t have to dirty your own. The dirt will be baked on. I’ll have to live with whatever mess my body is in afterwards. Morb ovens don’t work and that’s why I’m here. I’m secretly hoping mine won’t work either and they’ll let me go back to the factory, but then, I don’t know what happens to a host who can’t conceive. I’ve never heard that talked about. They might punish me. A new wave of anxiety washes over me.

  I flinch when a High-Host link, dressed in a garish, puce suit, slaps a round sticker on my chest with a number ten on it. He smiles, keyboard teeth so white you’d think he scrubbed them with cleaning chemicals. He sweeps his hand over his shiny brown hair, which looks as if it’s made of plastic.

  ‘Good luck, honey.’ he says in a deep, gravelly voice.

  I force a smile, then jump as a chirpy female voice echoes through the hall, I instantly recognise it as belonging to Delia Gold, the city announcer.

  ‘Welcome to Showcase!’ she says with a gleeful sigh.

  I can’t see what’s going on. I stand on tiptoes again and stretch my neck above the crowds of girls. Two figures stand in the middle of the stage. Little and large. Delia: tall and curvy in bright red. Chester: short and squat in his green suit. I decide he doesn’t look like a snake, he looks like a fat, little toad. Delia looks down lovingly at her counterpart and he gazes up at her, returning the warmth. Then they look out at the sea of people and Chester addresses the audience.

  ‘Good evening, hopeful hosts!’ he says in that familiar, jovial, yet superior tone that makes me cringe when it rings out from the city speakers.

  The crowd cheers and claps. Chester the toad smiles widely as he scans the room, his thin lips a smear across his smarmy face. I’m not convinced he cares about any of this. All I see is a slimy amphibian who should go back to the polluted pond where he belongs.

  I half-listen as he bleats on about the honour and responsibility of being a host, the land wars, survival of the human race, and the importance of extending the Morbihan community in order for them to create new technologies to enhance our way of life. Their way of life, I think to myself. Then Delia chimes in, her sugary voice makes me want to vomit.

  ‘Now girls, line up behind the High-Host link dressed in the colour Chester assigned to you and then you will approach the stage when I call your name.’

  We shuffle around and squeeze into lines in front of the suited freaks wearing our given colour. I wonder why we’ve been put into groups but quickly realise we have been sorted by skin shade, lightest to darkest, pink being the lightest group. This is humiliating beyond words.

  ‘In no particular order,’ Delia yells in her poshest voice, ‘from the purple group, Ms A. Bellasen.’

  A squeal of excitement sounds two girls down from me. At least someone’s happy. Tension mounts as I watch Andia slink up the steps and onto the stage. She stands tall; an athletic, dark beauty wearing her gold dress with pride. Unlike me, she has remembered to wear matching underwear. My shoulders scrunch up by my ears. They start to ache and I force them to lower. Deep breath, Sky, try to relax.

  One excited girl after another hurries to the stage while I apprehensively wait for my turn. Delia says the word ‘pink’ and my pulse thunders through my veins. I don’t want to go up there. I can’t do this. I study the girls carefully as they pass by. Many wear home-made makeup and they do their best to strut across the stage like they’re the most desirable creatures in the world. Some are a little reserved, but not the ones that are gunning for the prize – a life of luxury and safety, living in an apartment with their host family until their job as host is complete. Then they get to move to the comfort of The Hub.

  ‘Ms M. Skyla.’ Delia’s loud, formal voice resonates around the hall.

  I take a deep breath before making my way to the stage. Around a hundred eyes are on me. Their hot stares cause my skin to heat. I want them to stop looking at me, but I know they won’t, and they don’t. As I move, the material draped over my body shimmers like it’s made of stardust. The strong hall lights reflect silver dots over faces as I pass; now I really feel intimidated. It’s like I’m twelve-years-old again on the first day of work. I remember walking through those factory doors, heart racing faster than the Sky Train, fretful about the unknown and wishing I could turn invisible. That’s how I feel right now.

  I try to hold my head high but really, I’m quivering inside. I manage the steps without tripping and move past a line o
f nine girls already standing on the stage, their checks done. Chester rests the large silver pad on his pot belly and prepares to read, while Delia Gold moves me one step to the side so I’m on the marker – a painted black cross. Delia is a voluptuous middle-aged woman with botched bleached skin. Lightening of the skin isn’t an exact science and Delia is a good example of this – her face is two shades lighter than her blotchy burnt orange arms. Her skin clashes with her bright red dress, which not only matches her lipstick but also her fingernails and long magenta hair, which erupts from the top of her head like lava from a volcano. Her crimson claws click a small microphone to the neck of my dress. She back-steps and then speaks into something clipped on the shoulder strap of her dress.

  ‘Can you hear me, number ten?’

  The voice vibrates from my neckline.

  ‘Yes.’ I say, into the mic.

  Delia shuffles back to my side.

  ‘Parasites?’ Chester says in a robotic tone.

  Delia reaches up to check my head, releasing my hair from the bun, it drops gracefully to my shoulders. She places the fastener on a table behind her and proceeds to feel through my scalp with her sharp nails. I shiver at the tingling feeling, a creepy but welcome sensation.

  ‘No.’ she finally replies.

  ‘Skin rash?’

  She walks around my body, pressing her cold fingers against my skin in places.

  ‘No.’ she replies.

  ‘Broken teeth, gingivitis?’ he asks.

  Her eyes are level with mine. She does not smile or blink. She’s so close I can smell jasmine on her skin. I note the diamond-encrusted tiara on her head and several gold chains around her long neck. I’m surprised she can hold her head up with what looks like my body weight in gold draped over her. She squeezes my cheeks and I stick out my tongue. She nods and I grin widely so she can check my teeth.

  ‘One slightly chipped tooth, hardly visible.’ She slides her hands down my arms, picks up my hands and turning them over she says, ‘Nails not bitten, cut short, good condition.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replies Chester. He clears his throat.

  ‘Vision or hearing problems?’

  His words go unanswered. He clears his throat again.

  ‘Any vision or hearing problems?’ he asks, staring at me expectantly.

  ‘Pardon?’ I say.

  The stage erupts with staggered laughter. The short city official glares at the other nine girls and they fall silent again.

  ‘Do you have any hearing problems, or issues with sight?’ he says, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Oh sorry! You were talking to me,’ I say nervously. ‘No.’

  ‘Digestion or respiratory problems?’ he continues.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Addiction to illegal substances not on your record?’

  When I don’t answer right away his beady little eyes open wide,

  ‘We can check,’ he says.

  I look away. If I lie they will force the truth from me. I guess most are not going to lie to get out of Showcase and say they take drugs when they don’t.

  ‘No.’ I whisper.

  He strikes his pen across the pad.

  ‘Ever had broken bones or mobility issues?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Are your periods regular?’

  I nod and blush a little.

  ‘Let’s see you walk,’ he says, and gestures for me to walk the length of the stage.

  After watching the other girls sashay daintily across the stage, this might be my last opportunity to blow my chances. I trudge across the stage, heavy footed like a Mutil, stamping past shimmering dress after shimmering dress, my bare feet slapping against the shiny wooden floor. Then, instead of turning around gracefully and walking back, I remain with my back to Chester the inquisitor, and I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I raise my arms and tilt forwards. Blood rushes to my face and life pumps in my limbs. I cartwheel and flip until I’m standing breathless and exhilarated next to Delia. A roar of cheering explodes from the potential guards, accompanied by giggles from the hopeful hosts. They’re quickly silenced by Delia who makes a ‘settle down’ hand gesture, like she’s quieting a group of toddlers. I tug down my sheer dress and smile at the crowd.

  ‘Have you quite finished acting the clown?’ spits Chester.

  I nod. Delia flicks her magenta locks over her shoulder and smooths down her red dress.

  ‘Right girls, show time!’

  Starting with Andia, she leads the line of girls offstage and behind heavy, velvet curtains. I bring up the rear. I tuck myself behind the curtain and blink in the darkness. In front of the curtain, Chester’s voice booms for the next girl to take to the stage. Behind the curtain, Delia lines us up, hands on our shoulders, one at a time she moves each of us into place. I lean forwards and look down the line. Every one of us is stood in front of a black door, palm-pad on the right of it. Delia disappears and we all look round at each other, not sure what’s going to happen next.

  ‘On the count of three …’ Delia’s voice vibrates from each of our microphones. ‘You will press the palm-pad and step into your box.’

  My body shakes with apprehension, heart pounding. I will my arms and legs still.

  ‘This is your chance to impress the masters and mistresses,’ she says sternly. ‘Use the props, use your personality. For some of you this is your last chance, no room for mistakes! One, two, three, go!’

  We simultaneously press our hands to the silver palm-pad. To my surprise, the door doesn’t swing open, or inward, or shift into the wall. The black door starts to rise, releasing light which falls across my bare feet. When the door is almost all the way up, I step down onto the pink light coming from the floor of the glass box. I’m dazed by the floodlights shining down on us, the city beyond is shrouded in darkness. My eyes adjust. I spot Delia. She’s in a tube opposite our glass boxes, along with about forty Morbihan in hover-chairs. Delia, all in red, like head devil, weaves up and down the tube, stopping to lean down and chat to each couple. I don’t want them staring at my semi-naked body, and I don’t want to dance around for them like a glorified Glo-Girl.

  Beside me, there are nine other boxes in a semi-circle, the girls inside them stand on different coloured spotlights. The girl in box seven holds silver pompoms and is doing her best to strike cute poses with them. Another girl has some sort of confetti she is throwing playfully in the air. Andia is in the purple-lit box. Are those bubbles? Yep, she’s blowing bubbles. Not a good prop to use in a glass display box. One pops near her eye, she turns her back and rubs both eyes in an attempt to style it out. I scan my display case, on the floor is my prop – a teddy bear. I roll my eyes, cross my arms and lean my shoulder against the glass. Screw this.

  ‘Uncross your arms!’ Delia’s shrill voice sounds below my chin. ‘That’s not a good way to sell yourself, Ms Skyla!’

  I quickly uncross my arms. Not because she told me to, but because I have an idea. Not a good way to sell myself, huh? Well, I don’t want to sell myself to anyone! But I can’t do anything too drastic. Dry-humping the teddy bear or ripping its head off, will result in a painful punishment.

  I reach down and pick up the brown bear. Cuddling it at first; I then hold it away from me and twist my face up in terror; place its paws around my neck and act as if it is strangling me. I flail about my glass box trying to escape the killer teddy. Delia’s voice screams through the microphone for me to stop this nonsense. I ignore her and with teddy held behind my head, I slam my cheek into the glass, holding its paws as if I’m trying to stop it strangling me to death. I slide down the front of the glass box and then slump over on the floor, head hanging, dead. Teddy bear sitting on my lap, triumphant.

  ‘Time’s up, girls, please exit the box and make your way to the waiting room backstage.’

  I stand and throw the teddy on the floor. But before I can exit the box, ready for the next girl to come in and try her luck, Delia’s blotchy face appears in front of me.r />
  ‘That will cost you!’ she hisses, and I know it will. I’m counting on it.

  3

  An Unwanted Win

  The sun’s rays are too hot for the city. It melts. The apartment windows seem to slide, the tarmac ripples and twenty feet down, below the tracks, Skels edge around buildings, passing through shadows like vampires afraid of the sunlight. Skels have no choice but to brave the elements and make sure the Morbihan have everything they need. Morbs are of the utmost priority in this city, precious to all but me. I despise them, the disgusting hover-chairs of blubber. And now I’ll be surrounded by them. The thought sickens me.

  The sun beats down on my head and heats up a question that’s been torturing me for days; How did I get chosen? Someone must have made a mistake. I tried my best to be unappealing. I was so sure no one would pick me. I kick the Sky Train shelter and then quickly bend to rub the scuff mark from the tip of my polished shoe. I straighten up, puff out the tension and backhand a bead of sweat from my brow, fanning my face with my other hand so I don’t accidentally (on purpose) smudge my caked-on makeup.

  I’m tense. My body wound up like cotton around a finger, blood rushing to the tip like it rushes to my head and throbs. I know this feeling well, fight or flight, I’m on high alert. Usually it’s the Mutil who cause me this kind of anxiety. They’re a constant threat during darkness, but they don’t come out during the day, they’ve learned to be nocturnal, learned their place in the city. Their brains are damaged, their bodies a mess but they know better than to brave the daylight and I know better than to meet this family.

  There’s nothing I can do about it. I have no say in this decision. Skels have no say in anything. The good fortune of being one of the chosen few has been bestowed upon me. I don’t know how. There were so many better candidates then me; every candidate was better in my opinion, yet I have the honour of becoming a host. For me, it is no honour and there is nothing good about this.