An Omnichord Amongst Human Hair
The first to betray me was a god. My creator, my mother. I had been photographed as perfection personified for as many years as it took for me to learn to read. My mother stood behind the lights in marvel at her successful daughter, her only daughter at that. I was quickly making a name for myself, I had signed contracts and walked runways. I had felt the weight of bliss on my shoulders. She had seen so much potential in me that she became hungry for her own fantasies. The studio lights drained the life from my forces like a parasite. Once I was nothing but skin and bone I was thrown to the mutts of the street.
When we had reached home I would sit by her feet while she rested in the recliner. Her hand would reach out and slowly pet my hair. I hummed when her nails would scratch at the base of my neck and crawl back to my scalp. “You’re so beautiful, Gahalyn.” She spoke just above a whisper. I never knew how to respond, I had been hearing the same word all day every day. Pretty. Does it begin to lose meaning? Or do I begin the shapeshift into something uglier?
When I found the incriminating messages on her phone, I was almost forgiving.
‘You’re so sexy. Am I too old to say that?’
‘You’re not old. But I’m only 13, my dad would be really mad.’
“How could you have said that? Let alone text him pretending to be ME?!” I screamed in the car. Mother’s hand almost veered on the steering wheel. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, “I have it under control, don’t worry about it.” her voice was flat. Not interested in anything I had to say. It never felt under control.
The car rumbled against the concrete of the parking lot. The agency had been placed in the heart of the city, the modern windows reflected too much light in my opinion. A model I was once aquintenced with leaned against the brick with the cigarette in hand. She looked so beautiful, I was pathetically jealous of her. When I had slammed the door shut out of rage it had gained her attention. I hate her because no matter what angle I’d pick her apart from she was undeniably perfect; she seemed too perfect to be real.
“Would you like to catch up a bit? I’ll be inside getting paperwork,” my mother reassured me, I felt like a kid being dropped off at daycare.
“Hey Bella!” My excitement was so obvious, I loved talking to her. She was so much older than me. When I put it like that it sounds like I almost have a crush on her.
“Hey kid! Did you get your makeup done? It looks beautiful!” Bella screeched, the cigarette was now resting just outside her mouth. The smoke drifted into my face, floating up my nostrils and into my lungs. “Thank you, I did it myself. I’ve been learning how to recently. I really like doing makeup,” I replied.
She hummed instead of speaking, taking another hit of her tobacco.
“Wait? I thought you quit? I mean, that’s what you told me at the shoot last week.” I furrowed my eyebrows intentionally. I wanted her to take my concern seriously. “Cigarettes are hunger suppressants.” Her cool calm aura flew through her words.
At that age I never even thought of using smoking to supress hunger. I never thought of not wanting to feel hungry. The concept was so alien to me. The closest I had been to restriction was in the leather seats of my agent’s office.
“This page here states all of the foods we tell our models to never eat. Processed foods, Red dyes, Breads, ect. The normal.” She had been so casual up until this point. My agent had made it abundantly clear that under her hands I would be in perfect shape. Nothing more and nothing less. I often think, how confusing for such a little girl.
“Yeah that should be fine! I never eat dirty anyways.” I flashed the girl-ish charm I was molded to have, how unpleasant. They had given me a persona, ‘the innocent girl next door’. I smiled and laughed even when I was so desperately hungry.
“Anya? Can we stop somewhere on the way home? I’m so hungry and it's too late to cook '' I whined and kicked my feet in the front seat. She seemed so exhausted every time she looked at me, like I was a potential lost cause. It tore my heart every single time. “No, No. You heard Josslyn, no junk food.”
I sunk my spirits down with my weight. The pounds I’d been dropping fell down to the bones of my ankles and each step I’d taken felt like hurling weights over my shoulders. I no longer had a soul but rather an encasing and constant loop of trying. No matter how hard I tried, the action of trying never ended.
“Why haven’t you called me back?” Lynx yelled over the phone. “This is fucking pathetic dude, okay? I don’t understand why you make yourself so easy for guys.” His infuriating screams never matched the pitch of the static racing through my synapses. I find that as I grow older, men teach me new lessons about divine femininity. I am told that my purity is currency for impoverished men. I am the bank and the banker. This is a universal experience they forget to tell you about when you’re a teenage girl. They only want you when you’re 15; when you’re 21, you’re no fun.
I rested my head against the edge of the bathtub wall. The melody of an omnichord rang throughout the stark white walls. Tufts of my own hair had fallen out of my hands and down to the floor, the notes blemished and rested on the black clouds twisting at my feet.
“Please don’t tell me you’re high again,” Lynx begged. Towards the end of the sentence I heard his voice break and a hand hitting a steering wheel. He drove an MR2, a Japanese drift car, a red one. It was originally a dingy cream color but he wrapped it when I told him I liked red. My favorite color is purple.
“No Lynx, I’m not high. Can you please shut up? This is insulting,” I argued. I feared the more I’d open my mouth I'd empty my stomach and little plastic bags out onto the counter. “All you ever do is lie. You’re struggling to speak right now,” Lynx cried.
True substance lies with the connections of human beings. My senses numbed and the need to connect lessened. I felt the need to break down because all this damage wasn’t good damage. I hadn't made something out of myself so it was just that, damage.
“Lynx, I’m losing myself and I’m afraid you’re going to lose me too,” I whispered.
I’ll never know if my philosophies come from a state of elevation or if my washroom was a doorway to the heavens. On the cold tile I’d unraveled like yarn, losing my dignity and pride with each wool string. I’d never create something of the yarn because to me, they hold secrets of huffing and nodding off at the kitchen table repeating silently ‘please look sober, please look sober, please look sober’. I was no longer compacted together but rather a box inside of a smaller one and then another and another. Inside holds the remedies for life, a sense of identity within your inner child. Never deprived her of her needs for she loved you even when you were defenseless. Starvation is an addiction but so is salvation.
And to my mother, loving you seems almost biblical. I just wish you had protected me a day sooner. If there ever comes a day I no longer feel the same, you’ll forever shine like silver in my memories.
My name is Hayli Renee Glass and I’m a Hungarian-American student with an unconditional love for literature. I began writing at a young age after I quickly fell in love with authors like Jane Austin, Dazai Osamu, and Donna Tartt. I write as a hobby but I see myself pursuing a career in the near future.
I wrote ‘An omnichord amongst human hair’ based on my childhood and the progression to becoming a teenager. An omnichord is an electronic instrument made in Japan in the early 80’s. I chose to describe this instrument because during stressful days, which caused me to lose my hair, I would listen to the music of an omnichord. It often made me feel less crazy.
This piece is for the people who are now burnt out ex-gifted kids. I reassure you, you’re just as prized as you were back then.