Is My Body Mine?

Image by @v2osk on Unsplash

by K. Hartless

I just sold my pinky toes. A small price to pay to prepare a birthday feast for my turbo twins. Those boys were made in the back seat of their daddy’s Camaro, and they sure grew up fast. Got me wondering, though, if I raise ’em right, will any of my body still be mine?

So easy to sell parts on the market today, especially if you take good care of yourself. Moisturize and exercise, and all that shit. My cousin knew a guy who knew some rich investor with a toe fetish, so all I had to do was snap a couple of 3-D photos and flash them out. 

I wiggle both pinkies. Investors have enough money to buy their parts in advance. Add them to a digital collection and harvest ’em on a whim. I wonder if they spin the projected images like a toe-roulette, and with just a buzz, the toes are harvested that same day.

I check my realstate dash; it projects on my wrist the amount of me that is still privately owned. In case of injury or death, the authorities check the dash to know which parts need to be delivered for payment, if possible.

I swing by the floating market stalls that hover above the downtown. There are bracelets made of every color of hair, and rings with precious teeth for stones, but I focus on finding the supplies I need for this evening’s celebration. It’s New Year’s Eve, firework flowers are in bloom again, and the turbo twins are turning ten.

My realstate dash reads 75% with plenty of creds. Means the deal went through, and I’ve got funds to purchase the ham shank, the fireworks cake, and the rocket bikes the boys have been drooling over for many moons.

Chrome piped blue and red speed rockets might seem like an indulgence, but these bikes will mean freedom as the boys begin their second decade and now will be the legal age to take on serious work.

Two scruffy men walk by with canes supporting opposite legs. One has a patch covering his eye and the other is missing digits on his left hand. These days it’s hard to tell the difference between an accidental handicap and what we call a self-handi. 

But, judging by these men’s random missing parts, I’d say they’re most likely selfers. Not much sympathy for those who’ve let themselves be whittled away to pay for debts or buy their next mega-fast meal.

Yet, here I am. Selling myself just to give my boys the best farewell-to-childhood birthday party.

I remember the first time I sold a part of myself. My father had just finished fucking his way down the East coast, carting my sister and me along like extra luggage.

We had done well dumpster diving for food and avoiding his drunken anger after each gambling loss, but somewhere near Charles Town our luck ran out. 

My sister, Stella, had been running a high fever for days and a weird rash raised up on her arms and chest, but that didn’t stop Daddy from heading out in his motorized chair to the horse races; his losses had already cost him both his legs.

There wasn’t money for medicine, and the fever just wouldn’t break. I tried all the tricks Momma taught me: cool sponge baths, and ice pops. I even tried sweating it outta her by piling all our cheap hotel blankets into a mountain over her small frame. 

I was sixteen, and my only assets were youth and flesh. I didn’t know where to go or how to market myself, but I knew if I didn’t do something soon, my sister would be gone.

I followed Daddy to the racetrack. Bright lights in an oval and men smoking pipes in a fevered discussion as each horse trotted past. They measured hind legs and discussed each filly’s fitness and focus, the luster of its coat, and the beauty of its mane.

I lingered near the edges, thinking what parts I’d be willing to shed. I wondered how much it would hurt when I parted with a part of myself, and scolded myself for not bringing an ice pop to numb what was left afterwards.

It wasn’t long before some men noticed me between the swishing tails of the horses. They came closer, using the same faces to inspect my backside, my wavy auburn hair, the curve of my flanks. 

            “Now here’s a fresh filly.” An oily voice and an unwanted stroke slid down my spine.

            “I need some cred. To help my sister.” I raised my head but kept my eyes unfocused. I didn’t want to look at anyone’s eyes. To make that type of contact would mean that we were connected. 

            “This mane’s quite lovely.” A man stroked my hair. “Not sure what you’re willing to part with, but I’d love to keep those strands with me.”

            Then I saw the realstate dash flash for the first time. A number, that at first seemed absurd, 100%. A blue light encircled the dash like a hymen, a virgin of the modern age.

            In the end, I sold my hair down to the scalp, and also my right ear. A Dutch man said it would bring him good luck and that with an ear like that he’d be able to hear the angels talkin’.

When I returned to my sister, she was soaked from fever sweats. I phoned the hospital and they scanned my creds for the ride, starting a credit line for any “repairs.”  

            I managed to save Stella’s life and get my head cauterized. My appendage served a purpose, but the bills continued to mount. Interest by private hospitals snowballs and crushes everything inside you.

            I pick up light-on light-off balloons and two dozen bottles of the boys’ favorite pop, Fairy Fizz. 

            My fingers brush the horseshoe earring on the left ear as I pay with a quick scan of my realstate dash. It took years to not try and touch my other ear, just pulling on air. I will never cut my hair short. I can’t bear the asymmetry of my own face. 

            A weedy trail leads around the back of the building to our basement apartment. After years of living partly underground, I kinda prefer it.  

            I note the familiar musky smell as I pass through the rotting doorway. The flood a couple of years back left water stains around the door. Everything around here’s slightly chipped.

            Maybe if Carl had been able-bodied, he could have kept the place up. He had been such a sculpture of a man. 

But he was always looking for the next big win, and it didn’t take him long to lose it all, leaving me with twins and this broken-down apartment. Guess I should be grateful for that big payout just a year after the boys arrived. 

            The next few hours lurch past like the crush of rush hour.  I’ve taken care of the party decor, and food prep when I hear the boys stomp in, boots thick with mud. 

“Mom, tell me you didn’t.” Their voices are similar. Carl Jr. comes barreling at me to plant a kiss on my cheek. He’s the smaller of the two, and the one prone to hugging. I can smell the earthiness of his skin. He is my cuddly son. Everett is next to give me a sideways squeeze.

“So, what did it cost you?” They inspect me from all angles to see if they can find anything out of sorts.

            “It was just a tiny sacrifice, boys. Nothing really, for your biggest birthday.”

Real grins. I wiggle my pinky toes again. Totally worth it.

Then, we hear familiar moans. “Best get our family chores out the way ‘fore company arrives."

We head through the kitchen into the pantry. At the back wall, a shelf slides up to reveal a hidden space.

We smell the pungent discharge of our kin. Three Chesterfield chairs with nailhead trim, each containing a potato sack of a person. No arms, legs, breasts, or other expendable parts remain. Yet, there are three souls needing to be changed, cleaned and fed. 

Daddy was the first; man just couldn’t keep a dollar in his pocket. Sweet sister Stella’s hospital bills kept rolling towards her, crushing any hope of her ever getting ahead. And finally, the boys’ father, my beloved Carl. He had the best of intentions but the most he could do for us was to sacrifice his parts, one by one, ‘til it didn’t make sense to keep trying.

Quadruple amputees, they’ve lost it all.  Arms, legs, ears, they are like unlucky easter eggs. They each have one eye, only ‘cause it’s illegal to sell both.

Why do we feed ‘em and keep ‘em? I don’t know. Nostalgia, maybe, or is it because we know deep down that even though they have lost all parts, their souls are still intact?

K. Hartless is a writer of fantasy, science-fiction, and far-fetched nonfiction. She’s recently been published on Paragraph Planet, Pure Haiku and Spillwords. Her blog, Yardsale of Thoughts, blends poetry, music, art and brevity to create new experiences for readers