Perfect Predator

There are eyes looking at you out of those pictures. The smiling perfect family in the unwrapped photo frame, the cheerful child beaming at her math homework on the math book, the laughing women running through a field of sunlight on that brochure you picked up. There are creatures that slide their souls into perfect images and live in a flattened world. They watch us, their perfect teeth gleaming in perfect smiles, their perfect eyes following our movements. And they lure us ever closer to their shining teeth.

Allie Wallace, 24, of Winston-Salem North Carolina, is nearly ready to be consumed. Here she is now, leaning towards the bathroom mirror, her mouth open, applying her mascara. She does not know it, but they have been grooming her for consumption for years.

It began sitting shoulder to shoulder with her friends in the school hallway when she was sixteen. They were waiting for Mr. Faidley to finish cleaning the gym before going in. She was idly thumbling through a fashion rag, chatting with her friends about the things the celebrities wore to the recent Met Gala.

“Oh my gosh, have you ever seen something so ridiculous?” She said, looking over at her friend, her finger on the bizarre, jeweled concoction some wealthy woman was wearing.

“She looks like she tripped in the bead section at Hobby Lobby,” her friend giggled.

The shadow of Allie’s wrist fell across the page, the hem of her t-shirt brushing the paper. At the bottom, a small, cropped photo of Anya Taylor-Joy looked up at her, opened her perfect, lipsticked mouth wider than the real actress or any human could have managed, and licked the underside of Allie’s hand. All the other eyes in all the other faces blinked open and looked up at Allie, tracking her hand as it passed over the page. Allie felt nothing. She continued to flip pages, but she had been marked. They had her scent.

Two months later, Allie noticed suddenly that she’d been buying celebrity rags at the checkout counter a lot. She told herself she’d really gotten interested in the one story about the celebrity who had left her husband and was now living her best life with her publicist, six dogs, and her miniature horse support animal in San Francisco. It was fun to hear about how the rich and famous lived and talk about it with her friends. With that explanation, she thought no more about it. But the habit was affecting her, nonetheless.

The pictures changed under her fingers, angled themselves better, made their bodies look even more alluring. A cascade of shimmering hair fell down the back of a perfect model. Allie ran a hand through her hair, glanced in the mirror, bit her lip. Was it looking a little…thin? The picture watched her over its shoulder, eyes bright and hungry. She spent half of her next paycheck on an expensive haircut and dye, and skipped a friend’s birthday party to make up extra shifts at work so she could afford a touch-up and maintenance.

Now, as an adult, with her own apartment, Allie kept a stack of not just celebrity magazines, but fashion magazines, romance novels, even, oddly enough, math books with smiling children completing their math homework. There were copies of Carolina Country, her electric company’s quarterly magazine, filled with pictures of North Carolinians, smiling broadly into the camera. She’d stored an empty box for an air compressor with a picture of a man looking joyfully into the camera and filling his tires on the front. She had a number of picture frames with the stock photos still in them. And all of these pictures watched her as she walked past.

She finished in the bathroom and went into her kitchen, grabbing a low-fat yogurt out of the fridge. She leaned against the counter, absently paging through a Southern Woman magazine while eating. If she had friends or family over, they would have noticed something strange about this. But there was nobody left to visit and notice the strangeness.

Allie’s isolation had begun a few years after she was first marked. The week before her senior prom, her boyfriend casually mentioned that another girl was beautiful.

“What do you mean?” Allie snarled, instantly furious.

“I-I just meant she’s…I mean, she’s okay....” Said her hapless boyfriend, backpedaling.

“You never say I’m pretty anymore!” Allie hissed. She went home determined to remain the most beautiful girl in his world, poured even more money into making her prom outfit and makeup perfect—and the morning after prom she texted him that she wanted to break up.

In college she was generally liked by her sorority sisters, but they never seemed to get as close as her high school friends had. She didn’t have time for them, honestly, between her heavy course load, and picking up extra shifts in the cafeteria to pay for her pedicures, manicures, eyebrow waxing, and hair appointments.  She kept a rotation of boyfriends, mostly as a verification of how attractive she was.

One rare night she stayed out partying and when she staggered out of bed in the morning, a puffy, bedraggled mess, she felt so miserable she immediately vowed to her roommate that she’d never party again.

 “But you can’t have a hangover, you had like, one beer. And you looked like you were actually having fun, for once,” her roommate said, confused. “Everybody feels like crap the morning after.”

Allie just shook her head, her eyes closed, completely unaware that she had subconsciously registered the room-wide flinch she’d caused as she rolled out of bed. She kept her eyes shut, a roil of shame in her stomach, not understanding why she felt the way she did, not seeing the angry eyes all around her. She stumbled for the bathroom, for her makeup, a shower, anything to fix this—trying to breathe normally, to hide the panic that had gripped her.

When the door shut, her roommate, too plain to attract the notion of the predators, rolled her eyes. “Oh. My. How horrible, Perfect Allie unbent enough to have fun! What a shame!”

Now, two years out of college, the only person involved in any way in her life outside of work is her boyfriend, who is not allowed to visit (“Because you’re a slob”) and who she argues with at least every other week. She lost any real desire for male attention years ago, numbed and drugged by the saliva grazing across her skin every time she picks up a magazine, or walks past a photo.

Her 4.0 in college her landed her a job as a law clerk downtown for a very successful accidental injury firm. She is excellent at her work, where she makes absolutely no friends. She tells herself it’s because she’s an independent type, and she just doesn’t click with anybody. It’s really because she’s almost ripe for harvesting. They have closed all her escape routes. They will ensure, before feasting, that no one will notice when she is no longer inhabiting her body.

It’s seven thirty AM, Allie finishes her yogurt, grabs her briefcase, slips into a pair of stiletto heels, and checks herself in the mirror before she leaves. Her hair falls in perfect, auburn waves around her shoulders, her waist is trim, her makeup perfectly done. Her nails flash pastel pink as she posts a selfie on Instagram. She flashes a smile at herself, turns to open the door—and remembers.

She’d turned in her resignation to her job yesterday. She stands, eyes unfocused, confusion on her face. Why had she done that? It was the perfect job. How was she planning on affording rent? Would Derek help her out? No, they were on another break, because she’d thrown a lamp at him two days ago. Why had she thrown—oh…she remembered, and blushed. What a stupid argument that had been.

Her hand falls off the doorknob listlessly and she turns to face her apartment again, a line forming between her brows, her mouth half open in shock.

But a wrinkle or two doesn’t worry them now. There will be some distress before the end, after all.

Irresolute, she goes to the stove and turns on the heat under the kettle to make herself a cup of tea. She drifts over to the opposite counter, leaning against it, staring blankly around her. By habit, her hand reaches out and picks up a magazine.

It is the final moment, the last thing the predator needs. A beautiful face on the magazine page opens its mouth and swallows her finger. Allie shrieks, jumps backwards, and stumbles into the photo on the opposite counter. Her paper towel roll falls over, and so does the picture frame, but not before it reaches out and grabs her by the cheek, yanking and twisting, hissing at her, “Pretty pretty pretty! PRETTY!” They begin to consume her, sliding over her skin, numbing her as they go. The other photos in the house begin to slide closer, rattling and bumping as they do. There is nowhere for her to go, no one for her to call. They have all the time they need.

She screams, but it’s a good, solidly built apartment, and she knows none of her neighbors. The paper towel roll has fallen into the flame of the stove, and with a whoosh of its own, catches fire. The smoke alarms go off. Allie is twisting and writhing, but every time she turns, another face, another beautiful mouth suctions onto her, and begins to consume her, draining her away.

“Derek—” she gasps, but he is not there. “Mom!”—but she deleted her mother’s number out of her phone last year and has answered no calls since. The paper towel roll is a sheet of flame, and now it rages, hissing louder than the things eating her as it encounters olive oil spilled on the counter.

Dazed, disoriented, Allie watches the fire consuming her countertop as the predators consume her body. The blearing of the fire alarm sounds muffled. The predators are crying out with joy now as they slide up and down her body: “PRETTY! PRETTY! PERFECT!”

In midst of the animal panic of her brain, she understands; it is her beauty they want. There is only one escape left to her, one they never imagined she would take. She shoves herself off the counter where they have her pinned, stumbles, lurches, and throws herself on the fire.

--

Pain wakes her. Pain, and the unfamiliar sensation of someone’s hand on hers. She blinks—only one eye opens, the other is glued shut and burning horribly—her mother is sitting by her bed. Dumpy, wearing a shapeless sweater, jeans out of style, and love on her face. Allie fixes her one good eye on her mother, on the undeserved affection there, and can’t manage anything more than a groan. She wants to say “I’m sorry,” but can’t.

“What happened?” Her mother says, crying, “What happened, Allie? They found you half on fire! They called Derek and he gave them my number. I came as soon as I could—” she hesitates, timid, “I hope that’s okay? And oh, your face—your beautiful face!”

Allie feels the covering over one half of her face, the burning pain of it. She clutches her mother’s hand and tears streak down her cheek.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” her mother whispers.

But Allie shakes her head, squeezes her mother’s hand. She can’t say it yet, but the tears on her face are tears of joy. She has survived, and they will never rule her life or hunt her again.