A Face Like No Other

I was born with a unique form of acne that is mild in scale but pervasive in scope. Every single pore on my face contains a pimple, although none of them are very bad. One on its own would hardly be noticeable; only altogether is the effect so striking. Overall my skin appears dimpled like the texture of asphalt or lemon rind. An expansive variety of doctors ranging from medical graduates to crystal healers all concurred that there was absolutely nothing to be done. This is your reality, each one of them had said. No pill, cream, elixir, or regimen ever made the slightest improvement, and the futile efforts became unbearably disappointing. My only option was to accept my knobbly face. 

I thought that I would take a risk and own my individuality by showcasing my face to the world. While doing so was frightening, the promise of empowerment compelled me. After all, each pimple was a part of me, as much as my beating heart. So I resolved to upload an unfiltered and well-lit picture of myself on social media. First, I shaved off both my eyebrows so as not to obscure even one of the bumps I was determined to embrace. Then I took and retook the picture eighty-four times. Finally, pleased with the photo, I captioned it I am on the hunt for self-love and then, I anxiously posted. 

The rapid onslaught of likes and shares that my picture generated came as a complete shock. I gained thousands of online followers overnight. They left comments on my picture and while some were haters, the overwhelming majority were exalted with admiration. My followers wrote things like Fucking queen! and I would die for you <3 and I literally wish I could wallpaper my house in your skin. 

People started to comment that I had just the sort of “interesting face” modeling agencies spring for and that I should apply. So I emailed a modelling agency my photo. Ten minutes later my phone rang and it was them, begging to sign me. I thought my luck was unreal. Soon after I was offered a closed contract with a Manhattan fashion house which I signed immediately. They flew me to New York to meet their team. Everybody in the meeting had skin as smooth and shiny as saran wrap. They stared at my skin like it was the Second Coming. 

“That strange face…” 

“It’s extraordinary!” 

“Like ostrich leather…” 

“Magnifique!” 

At their request, I agreed to board inside the headquarters. There my bedroom had no windows. My toilet was industrial steel. And it seemed that each night while I slept, somebody was replacing my toothbrush. Weeks passed and I was yet to model. I wandered the halls but the doors were locked. I screamed but nobody came for me. Night after night I bent my toothbrush bristles in peculiar angles and awoke to a perfect new one, confirming my suspicion. 

One day the brand director appeared in my room with a small cage covered by a black blanket. 

“Um, hello?” I said. 

“You’ve done great,” she said happily. 

“Nobody’s taken my photograph!” 

“We’ve done even better!” she exclaimed, lifting the black cloth off the cage to reveal a monstrosity so egregious and repulsive that I screamed for my mother. The thing was pink and speckled with pus. Two flaccid strips of skin flailed on either side of its face. It had ghastly little black beads for eyeballs. 

“What the fuck is that…” I asked with a gag. The woman explained that it was a hairless rabbit genetically engineered to mimic my skin texture.

“Come again?” I said. 

“Your hide is extraordinary,” she told me, “and we’re introducing it as the exclusive leather of our upcoming luggage collection. While ethics preclude the production of human goods,” and she rolled her eyes there, “with your DNA we replicated your condition and afflicted bunnies like this one.” She slapped the cage. The little freak bared its teeth. “They’re fair game because they were cooked up in a test tube. All this is legal, I assure you.” 

I contemplated for a moment before asking, “How could this be legal?”

“Didn’t you read the contract?” she frowned. 

I had not. All I looked at was the figure denoting the total sum I would be paid in exchange for my participation. I reminded her of the figure and she handed me a thick band of cash. Then she opened the doors and I was free.

Jane Dabate is a writer from Massachusetts. She received the 2024 Pat Kavanagh Prize from United Agents Books for her portfolio on the Goldsmiths, University of London Creative Writing MA Programme. She was shortlisted for the 2023 Bridport Short Story Prize and longlisted for the 2024 Fish Short Story Prize and the 2024 Oxford Flash Fiction Prize.