Heads

By Fred Venturini

Marion couldn’t decide which head to wear to the auction.

Her original head was all but retired.  She kept it for sleeping.  No sense smearing the makeup or matting the hair of her pretty heads.  The skin on that old face was loose.  Wrinkles threatened.  She hated those brown birth-eyes, not because of the color, because they were familiar. 

The closet was a long hallway, with her head collection displayed above matching outfits.  Young blondes lined the entire right side, with a mix of hazel-eyed brunettes and raven-haired beauties with gray eyes on the left.

The day’s forecast was cool and clear, with a smattering of clouds.  So the sun would be out. 

“A blonde day,” she said.  Most of them were. 

At the end of the closet, she twisted the silver ring on her neck.  A chook-hiss followed, like an opening soda can.  Her sleeping head’s face fell limp; the eyes slammed shut.  Temporarily headless, she placed the sleeping head to the side. 

Today’s head snapped into place on her naked neck-stump, and Marion twisted the ring again.  Her blue eyes snapped open.  Breath puffed through the nostrils; a pulse shook underneath her jaw.

She smiled, stuffing her old head into a cabinet at the end of the closet.

After dressing, she regarded herself in the mirror.  The hair was done just the way she preferred, her makeup crafted onto her young face.  The silver ring was crusted with diamonds, and looked like an exquisite choker.  She patted her cheeks with the palm of her hand in delight. 

“These save so much time,” she said to her reflection.

*

“So what do you think?” she said. 

“I’ve seen that one before, dear.”  Frank was reading the paper.

“You didn’t even look.”   

“I did, just not that long.  Didn’t have to.  I’ve seen it before.”

“But not with this sweater,” she said.  “It matches so well, don’t you think?”

Frank broke away from the paper.  “Matches fine.”

“I’m going to town for the auction today.  I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Jesus.” He cast the paper onto the table.  “When is enough going to be enough? You know how I feel about this.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, “but it’s completely acceptable in today’s world.  Vogue, in fact.  No different than buying shoes or clothes.”

“Those don’t change who you are,” Frank said, “and they don’t cost seventy-five grand for the cheap ones.”

“Maybe I’ll sell my old head to make up what I spend today, would you like that?  Maybe I’ll get ten thousand.  Or ten dollars, more likely.”

“I remember when our pillow talk was about growing old together.  Now I’m the only one growing old.  Spend the money, then, if that’s what you want.  That’s what you want me to say, right?  Buy your trinkets.  Run from yourself.”  Frank picked up the paper again.

Marion released a huff of disgust, and then turned to leave. 

“I see your face, Marion,” Frank said from behind the newspaper.

She stopped.  She listened without looking back. 

“When I work late in my study, I peek in on you.  When you sleep alone.  I look at the face I love.  I see your young face in my heart, your old face at night.  Both are beautiful.  But when you come down like you did this morning, I have to look at your heart and nothing else.  I wish that was enough, but there’s a lot to a face. I do what I can.  And I love you, Marion.”

Marion walked out the house without saying a word.

*

     She sat in the back of the Rolls Royce rubbing her hands together—the skin was supple, lacking the elastic of old.  She took care of all that.  Surgeons were doing more and more these days.

The bustling city was cast in a shade of shadow through the tinted glass. 

Marion saw people walking down the street, dressed neat, heads held high.  They smiled and sparkled, silver rings around their necks designed in a thousand different ways.  She noticed a woman in a lavender sweater that was wearing a head similar to hers; there was a rush for blondes when the procedure was deemed safe and legal, but Marion was going to bone up on her brunettes today.  She expected that to be a big summer item. 

Some men wore sharp suits or tight turtlenecks; some wore workout clothes.  They wore smiles and their eyes were bright; others, however, hung their heads.  They wore no symbol of wealth.  They would age, and be forever unattractive.  And they were unattractive, because if they were attractive—

The limo’s brakes screeched, snapping Marion’s torso forward.  The lap belt held her. 

“What’s going on?” 

Her driver didn’t respond.  Hands slapped the window next to her.  Marion recoiled and saw wide, dark eyes. 

“Fuck you, fuck you all!  Take it!  Take my head you bastards!  You face-whores, rot in hell!”

The woman in the window was wrapped in a rotting overcoat.  Her hair spewed in each direction.  Marion looked at the face, as was her habit.  The eyes were brown and sparkled with equal parts madness and anger . . . and beauty.  And scars.  The tone of the sink was a cinnamon perfection.  This was biracial breeding at its best, as if cream lurked beneath the surface of the tan flesh.  Sculpted chin and high cheekbones set her off. 

“Fuck you all!”  Thick arms grabbed the woman; police were pulling her away from the window.  Pretty faces looked on, still smiling.  Others were pointing.  The ugly ones kept their heads down as they shuffled along the sidewalk.

“Shame,” Marion said.  “What a shame.”

Pink gashes lined her forehead, and spelled “whore.”  “Rich” was carved in her left cheek; the other check had a hammy scar that drew a line from her earlobe to the corner of her mouth. 

“Can you believe they do that to themselves?  Deprive their lives--and ours--of such beauty?”

Her driver shook his head.  Perhaps he was disagreeing, perhaps he was disgusted.  An agreeable man, even if she didn’t remember his name, she figured him for the latter.  Disgust was the most reasonable reaction, of course.

*

     More silver neck rings at the auction.  Marion was proud that hers sparkled of diamonds and platinum, while many others were of the less valuable white gold variety, and good heavens, others had imperfect diamonds in their chokers, which was delightful. 

     She maintained perfect posture in her velvet chair and ran a finger over the diamonds on her neck.  The real ones, shown in greater relief thanks to her poorer peers.

     The auctioneer, dressed in all black from slacks to turtleneck, came to the podium.  He was met with stone silence.

     “We have but one item up for auction today, but I assure you, this will be worth your time and bid.  I give you Alayna.”

     She was tall and handcuffed behind her back.  Two men, also in black, guided her to the front of the stage by the crooks of her elbows.  She was nude, but no one looked at her the perfection below her neck.

     “Alayna is nineteen years old,” the auctioneer said.  “In addition to the youthful quality of her face, notice the symmetry.  High, powerful cheekbones will give you a sense of nobility, as will her granite but ladylike chin.  Her ears are tiny and sleek.  If we could turn her, gentlemen, our audience will see that her hair is quite long, and suitable for any styling choices.  She is a natural brunette.”

     Marion almost gasped.  Alayna’s hair teased her bare buttocks.  For the first time, she noticed how the lack of a silver compression ring accented the girl’s beauty, but that was just a quibble; she was marvelous. 

     “Her hair has been exposed to nothing but natural conditioning compounds and purified water since she came into our custody.  Her skin is all-natural and injection free.  We gave her standard washing, with vitamins to help tone.  Her makeup is done by Lady Myselle Dubuque, who is under contract for one dozen designs of this particular life option.”

     A collective gasp escaped the crowd. 

     Imagine, the Lady Dubuque updating the cosmetic appearance of such a perfect head for important occasions?  Or just a tune up?  Now that the world’s finest makeup artists were contracting with the best heads, the prices were only going to rise.  Marion was ready. 

     “The bidding will begin at one-hundred thousand,” the auctioneer said.  Marion expected no less, but didn’t expect the bidding to start at what she estimated the head to be worth.  The paddles rose in a flurry. The auctioneer politely nodded, pointed, and announced the next bid. 

     Marion was locked onto Alayna; her paddle didn’t move.  The girl’s eyes looked to be melting . . . but it was only tears smearing the intricate art of the Lady Dubuque.

     “Please don’t bid.  Put them down, don’t let them do this.  You know this isn’t right,” she pleaded.  The men holding her tightened their grip as her narrow legs began to scuttle against the stage.  “Let me go.  Let me go!”  She writhed and kicked.  “I made a mistake, just let me go now please.  Please!”

“Silence her,” the auctioneer said.

“I hope the winner will feel the hatred I leave in my brain for you.  The minute you put me on, I’m going to try to kill everything you love.  Curse you all,” she whispered behind her sobs.

     “Absurdity, I assure you.  Gentlemen, quiet her please?”  They followed the orders of the auctioneer.  Still kicking, the larger of the two men withdrew a syringe from his black blazer and jammed it into her arm.  Almost immediately, she went limp.  With careful consideration, the smaller captor lifted her head by the chin to display her sleeping face to the crowd.

     “She even rests in beauty,” the auctioneer said.  “Disregard her ill will, and be assured that she will leave behind none of her thoughts and memories.  The cleansing is becoming more efficient by the day, and she will have an advanced neuro-cleansing done, so bid with confidence.  All cerebral information encoded in your hydraulic ring will have ample room to roam with this free spirit. Do I hear one-thirty?”

     The paddles rose with ease; Marion’s was one of them.

*

     The certificate on the limo’s armrest served as registration for Alayna’s head--or as they called it, life option--which was to be surgically removed, prepared, and delivered to Marion’s home by the auction house. 

     This head would be the envy of her friends this summer.  But now, the hard part: Frank would not approve of the hundred and fifty thousand spending spree.  Oh well.  Frank is Frank.  He wasn’t going anywhere, even if his money was. 

     As the limo pulled into her driveway, she saw Frank on the porch.  He had a fork in his hand; he was eating a late lunch.  But who was the woman across the table from him?

     Forgetting all about Alayna, Marion pranced up the sidewalk and up the steps. 

     “Frank?  What is this?”

     He was laughing as he turned to greet her.  “Can I help you?”

     As Marion approached, she recognized the woman.  It was her.  The old face, the one she used for sleeping. But it looked so vital, so alive, so happy.  And so did Frank.  It was disgusting.

     “What is this?”

     “This?  A man and wife having lunch.  Why are you here?  And who are you?”

     Marion’s teeth dug into her lower lip, drawing blood.  Her fists were white balls.  “So this is what you do while I’m away?  Have one of the maids prance around with my head on?  Act like I’m not your wife?”

     “You’re not,” he said.  “She is.  Get out of my house.  Now.”

     “Do you think this will go over?  That I can’t prove that I’m your wife?”

     “You can’t,” he said.  “You haven’t been my wife for a long time, and she has.”

     “Fingerprints?”

     “You had your hands done so they’d match your young heads.  You have no real fingerprints.” 

     “I’m going straight to my lawyer’s office, Frank.  I’m divorcing you.”

     “I’ve already divorced you, whoever you are.  And you’ve already called your lawyer, told him to look out for a crazy maid who’s trying to swindle my fortune.  Standford, get her off my property.”

     Ah, that was the driver’s name.  A hand gripped her arm and she was dragged away, much like Alayna was dragged onto the auctioneer’s stage.  Without speaking, Standford cast her beyond the gate, smiled, and turned away. 

From between the bars of the fence, she watched herself dine with her husband.  For the first time, Marion cried through eyes that were not her own.

THE END

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