The Girl with a Seam in Her Face

The Girl with a Seam in Her Face by Shiny

Issue 2.18 | Fiction

Cover Art: L. Erickson

There is a seam in my face.

I don’t know where it came from. I wasn’t born with it, and I don’t remember any injuries that would cause a seam-like scar. I was scratched by a cat once? But that was on my cheek beneath the eye, and this is where the bridge of my nose joins with the rest of my face. Also, the cat scratch wasn’t bad enough to leave a lasting mark.

There is a seam in my face.

I’m learning crochet. I made a top. It’s cute, I think, but when I wear it all my sister can say is how it’s gross and shows my belly. She’s prettier than me. Everyone talks about how she’s the pretty one.

There is a seam on my face.

It’s not visible from a distance, but every time I look in a mirror it’s glaringly obvious. Absorbing. The pimples, the stubble from my desperate attempts to be rid of my disgusting ladybeard, all the other stupid little imperfections that I hate, none of them compare to the seam.

There is a seam on my face.

When my mother cooks dinner, the menu is at her whim. Often, what she decides on includes items I am allergic to. As I am not allowed to use the stove, I consume snacks and cold foods from the fridge. One night, there is no bread for sandwiches or leftovers waiting, so I eat slices of cheese and lunch meat rolled together. I’ve learned not to ask, but my mom starts complaining about not being a short order cook anyway.

There is a seam in my face.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m a robot or something, and the seam is concealing my real face made of gears and wires. It wouldn’t be that odd: it’s not like I’ve ever fit in with my family, or Humans in general. They’d probably be glad to know I wasn’t really one of them, that this ugly fuckup of a girl didn’t come from their genes. I talk wrong, and I act weird, and what kind of person likes to eat dry cereal with ketchup anyway? At least it would be an explanation for what’s wrong with me.

There is a seam on my face.

We go on vacation, my family and I. There aren’t enough beds for everyone. I get the couch because my parents have back issues and my sister is the baby. My parents watch the TV late and I have nowhere to sleep. A restaurant they go to specializes in foods I can’t eat, so I stay behind and rest.

There is a seam in my face.

Yeah, I have memories of being a little kid, but those could probably be copied. I mean, whoever did this copied all of me, right? What’s a few memories? Is there a version of me that hasn’t felt so distant, so out of place? Is there a version of me that’s loveable?

There is a seam on my face. It has been there for months now. I can’t tell if it’s growing or if it’s stayed the same. I am tired of being this version of myself, this girl who is unloved and unwanted, who doesn’t fit among the people she "grew up" with, those supposed genetic relations. I wish to be the me that is exposed gears and wires, unable to fit anywhere but no longer expected to, glorious and free.

I stand in the mirror and take a knife to the skin where my nose and cheek meet. I follow the line. Blood bubbles, and tears spring to my eyes but I dig deeper, deeper still. I must be free, I must.

I dig my fingers in down to the bone and pull with all my might—

I am not a robot.

—

Shiny is an amateur writer currently based in Wichita Kansas. Though prolific with her writing as a hobby, she is only just beginning to seek publication.