Written by Sasha Rainbow
Art by Marina Carreira
Let me introduce you to Millie.
See, Millie doesn’t really exist. Not in a literal sense, at least.
But let me explain.
Millie is timeless. She ate the apple. She knows all.
Millie is a very proud woman.
Every morning she gets up, throws ice on her face, then carefully unravels the curlers from her hair that she secretly puts on in the middle of the night as her husband Boris sleeps. She then adds some rouge, slips back into bed, and waits for Boris. As his eyes struggle open, she rises with a sweet yawn from her lipstick stained kisser.
Now, this might sound crazy. But let’s try and understand.
Millie grew up in time.
At a few months old, they pierced her ears. Not long after that, they bound her feet. What delicate little things they were! Around puberty, just after her FGM surgery, something very exciting happened, a great advancement, one could say. The advertising industry had a profound revelation…that they were only selling razors to 50% of the market. What fools they had been! After a brilliant silky smooth campaign Millie became ashamed of her fuzzy upper lip and the hair on her toes and began to shave. Of course she sliced herself on occasion, but it was worth it, of course.
Then came her period. She was terrified, but Millie knew better than to tell anyone, lest she was punished like the other girls. When her stomach began contracting with splitting spasms, she decided she was either dying or possessed by some kind of predatory demon. She began to fear her own body and what was happening to it. Her dear mother, bless her soul, must have noticed what was going on, and sent her to a cave, away from everyone until the bleeding passed. The next time the bleeding came, Millie was more prepared. She stuffed old linen rags where her undergarments would be and tied them around her waist with a makeshift string belt.
Not long after, WW1 had concluded and with that, the invention of the modern menstrual pad, designed for trench dressings for soldiers to soak up blood from the wounds. And thus, Kotex sanitary pads were born.
By that point though, Millie was focused on remaining conscious. So tight was her whale bone corset, she was prone to bouts of fainting.
Now that Millie was a woman, in that she bled, it was time for her arranged marriage. They inspected her hymen to make sure it was intact. When the all-clear was given, a date was set. She didn’t see him right until the ceremony was closing and they lifted her veil to reveal his bloated, pockmarked face, flushed with desire. That night she lay there as a stranger, her husband, took her virginity. The next day a white cloth stained with blood was paraded around the village to prove she had been taken, for the first time.
In the coming years, Millie birthed three children of varying degrees of neurosis. The invention of the dishwasher and microwave (both christmas and birthday gifts) was somewhat of a relief, however the electric zapped meals, and child rearing seemed to add inches to her waistline, much to the chagrin of her greasy betrothed. In time, Millie contracted herpes and crabs from her cheating husband, who finally left her for a younger woman, and she was left to raise the three babes on her own, with no child support and a low wage.
But Millie was not one to be disgruntled. A wolf whistle on the street sent her a lightning bolt revelation – that her tiny feet might just be able to pull in some extra cash. And how right she was. Within days of opening up an Only Fans account, she quickly realized she could make a lot more money using her body than most other available jobs on the market.
Like any smart businesswoman, Millie reinvested her earnings.
She carved and stitched and peeled herself into a carefully sculpted patchwork. She sliced open her breasts and added three cup sizes of giggling silicone. She wrenched back her skin over her bones to undo any lines and wrinkles and sagging jowls she had accumulated through her life of hard work. She did copious laser skin peels and blood infused injections. She topped everything off with monthly botox, and filler to plump up her lips and lessen her deepening nasal labial folds, and when she ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth she could feel clumps of filler moving around.
Even though she had no intention of having any more children, the bleeding still came. By this time, Millie had moved off moon cups. It was too awkward trying to rinse out her blood as strangers walked into the public bathroom, then retreating to a stall like a criminal, to put it back where it belonged.
She also couldn’t stand the embarrassment of tampon buying. First, there was the moral panic, fear that the cotton prong would rupture virginity and cause sexual arousal. Then, there were the men scoffing as she purchased a ‘super’ pack for her heavy flow, or walking to the aisle titled ‘Sanitary Goods’ as if it was a section for disease and contamination. And so, as would seem natural, she began to take the pill, and just stopped having her period altogether. At first it was a delight, but soon, she started to bloat, and her skin broke out in acne. Worried she was no longer desirable, she had her stomach stapled and had the fat sucked out of her. But she was in so much pain she grew despondent.
Millie was upset, maybe a little depressed, who wouldn’t be? So she went to the doctor, who promptly diagnosed her with hysteria and sent her to an institution for the insane. There she endured a couple of years of ice baths and electric shock therapy. She was finally released by pretending to be cured (“I’m perfectly happy, I’m only here to serve and accommodate.”) But when she was found dancing in the rain with flowers in her hair (she hadn’t felt the outdoors for sometime and nature seemed miraculous) she was accused of being a witch.
The witch hunters dragged Millie to trial. They searched her body for signs of the mark and found a scar left by her husband on her chest just above her left breast, the ‘place where the devil fed’, they said. She was about to be burnt at the stake when an admirer from Only Fans recognised her and helped her escape down a narrow passageway.
He declared his love for her, dear Boris, and told her he’d look after her for eternity (as long as she cooked, cleaned and gave him blowjobs, it was naturally presumed).
And it was then, in the safety of her new home, that Millie started to realise her bloom was withering. Now, a soft peach fuzz covered her entire face. Her once nipped belly began to sag, her breasts began to flop. Now thoroughly distrustful of doctors, for obvious reasons, she turned to the internet, and started to use the wonder weight drug, Ozempic. She slimmed down but her face became gaunt as her collagen and muscle mass withered away. Clothes hung off her perfectly but no one looked at her on the street. She bleached her teeth but when she smiled at young men they averted their eyes pityingly. She wiggled her tiny feet at passing sailors but they only cringed. She didn’t know how she fit into the world anymore.
And then the hot flashes began.
One night, Millie woke convinced someone had set her on fire. She tore the sheets off, flung open the windows and stood naked in front of the open freezer. By morning, she was shivering. She began dressing in layers she peeled off hourly. Her skin forgot what moisture was. Her hair thinned, her smell changed, her joints began to click. Sometimes she opened her mouth and found no words there at all, just air. She farted in places that required dignity. Libraries. Churches. Once, during a compliment.
No one had told her about menopause. Not her mother. Not the magazines. Not the doctors who had already cut, burned, stitched, and prescribed her into shape.
Once again, she thought that she might be dying.
But something surprising happened. Something loosened. The fever came and went. Her blood dried up. A sort of peace washed over her. And with it, something else: the feeling of being watched, measured, assessed.
Millie walked through the city and no one looked at her.
And strangely, she stopped caring.
She could stand inches from men who once would have followed her home. She could speak without being interrupted.
She was no longer an object.
And for the first time, nothing was being taken from her.
She felt like an invisible ghost now.
She was finally free.
EPILOGUE
About a year later, Millie noticed the bald patch on Boris’ head had begun to migrate. It no longer stayed politely at the crown but was spreading with colonial ambition.
He had dyed his remaining hair purple, which only emphasised the shine of the exposed parts. He pierced one ear with a gold hoop. He bought a red Porsche he couldn’t reverse. He started saying things like I’m still a catch.
Millie suggested they go to Turkey.
By the time they reached Turkey, Millie had purchased a floral bikini so loud it could be seen from space. She paired it with a hat the size of a satellite dish and sunglasses that made her look like a movie star in hiding. She did not check how she looked. She did not adjust. She did not scan the room.
She ordered a burger. Then, without a moment’s thought, she ordered fries and a piña colada with a cherry and a tiny umbrella. When the waiter brought it, she flirted with him, not carefully, not strategically, but like a cat stretching in the sun. He blushed. She laughed.
She laughed loudly.
She laughed without apology.
Boris sat beside her, bandaged, swollen, scrolling through photos of what he would soon look like. He kept asking if she would still love him.
Millie kissed his cheek without a word.
Around her, men reclined like wounded soldiers, their scalps stitched into temporary constellations. They drank beer through straws.
Millie ate her fries with her hands.
Ketchup smeared her fingers. She licked it off without checking who was watching.
No one was.
She had never felt lighter.
About the Author:
Sasha Rainbow is a filmmaker. Her feature Grafted is a skin-deep body-horror film about beauty, obsession, and identity gone wrong. You can catch it on Shudder. Find her here.