2004

SHORT STORY COMPETITION

First Prize

Mangleface

By Tyler Keevil

She had been beautiful once. I could tell by the way she walked - straight-backed, long strides, confident. She walked like a beautiful person. But she wasn't beautiful. Not anymore. Her face looked like it had been worked over with a cheese grater. They'd done a half-decent job on the skin grafts, but I guess in a case like hers there's only so much you can do.
The first time I saw her I was putting tapes back on the shelves. She was studying the films in our foreign section. I couldn't see her face but I had a good view of her body. That was enough to make me put down my armload of movies and saunter over.
"Can I give you a hand with anything?"
Something in the naturalness of my tone almost fooled her into forgetting what she was. She turned to me, flicking her hair in a long-practised motion that hadn't rusted with disuse.
"Yeah - I'm looking for..."
She saw my expression. I couldn't help it.
"Never mind," she said.
I stood beside her for a minute, couldn't think of anything to say, and walked back to my till in a daze. I watched her out of the comer of my eye. I wasn't satisfied with how I had left things. After a minute I marched back to the foreign section.
"Look, I'm sorry about that."
She picked up a display box so she wouldn't have to look at me.
"Don't worry about it."
"You like foreign films?"
A shrug. "I'm getting bored of the normal stuff."
I figured if I was in her place I'd watch a lot of films, too.
"That ones pretty good." I tapped the case in her hand. "Violent, but pretty hilarious. I dug it."
She smiled at me. It was hideous enough to shatter all the mirrors in the world, and it broke my heart.
"Thanks," she said.
I wouldn't say she came in frequently after that, but she came in regularly.

She stopped by in the daytime, when I was the only cashier and the store was empty.

On Fridays, she always rented two or three movies. She never came in on weekends.
She walked in one day when I was training a new kid.
As soon as she had gone by, the kid said, "Did you see mangle-face there?"
I told him to shut his mouth.
Despite that, I started thinking of her as Mangleface. I never learned her real name. She rented movies on her father's account. I only knew that her last name was Rice. Mangleface Rice. I felt strangely protective of Mangleface, and the incident with my trainee taught me something that should have been obvious but that I'd never had reason to consider before: the world is a terrible place for the ugly, the disfigured, and the deformed.
The discovery of her boyfriend came as a surprise. I only saw them together once but that was enough. They made the mistake of coming in just after five. The pre-dinner rush is our busiest time of day. I was so preoccupied that I didn't even notice them until they got in line. The line to my till snaked halfway to the back of the store. I kept an eye on them. They stood and stared at their feet, muttering to each other every so often. Her face drew a lot of stares.
By the time they reached my till the tension was bubbling over.
"Is this flick any good?"
He thrust the tape into my hands. He was dressed in a suit and tie - a real good-looking guy. I glanced at the tape. It wasn't good, but I lied.
"Sure, it's cute."
"Cute," he snorted. "You hear that?"
"I want it," she snapped.
He wilted. He lowered his head and rolled his shoulders. He slapped five dollars down on the counter. I guessed the nature of their relationship in that brief exchange. Guilt had given her power over him, but it was fading. Soon he would begin tearing at his collar. If he were man enough, he'd break it off outright. If he were a coward, he'd start by neglecting her, then move on to fooling around with other people, until she was forced to call it off herself.
I gave him his change. It was hard to read her expression. Her face didn't work in the typical way. But I think she was crying when they left. I wondered if she'd had the same premonition that I'd had. Probably she hadn't needed a premonition. Probably she knew in her heart that it was only a matter of time before she was alone.
The more accustomed I grew to her disfigurement, the more I was able to ignore it and treat her like a human being. She began coming in more frequently. If there was somebody else in the store, she was anxious. But when we were alone, she wasn't afraid to talk to me. I learned that she liked pecan ice cream and skiing. Her favourite movie was Night of the Living Dead - the original black and white version.
I never asked her about her face.
Sometimes, though, when she wasn't looking, I'd check her out. If her back was turned to you she was hot. She had a great body. Then you'd see her face and that would be it. It was terrible. I wondered if she and her boyfriend had sex much. Maybe every so often, but only with the lights out. He would pretend that her face wasn't her face. In the dark it could be anybody's face. He wouldn't kiss her. He'd just grab her tits and squeeze her ass and imagine she was somebody else. That asshole didn't deserve her. He really didn't.
I grew used to seeing Mangleface every day. I looked forward to those morning chats with her. She was good company. Plus, I felt good about myself after talking to her. Nobody else would so much as give this girl the time of day, and here I was befriending her. She was grateful. I was a hero.
If she didn't turn up, I got worried. What had happened to her? Maybe she'd had a fight with her boyfriend. I waited for her to come running to me. She would be in tears. She would need a shoulder to cry on. Who else could she turn to? Her saint. I was her saint. I was the only one who could see past the horror of her face.
Other times I imagined she was in trouble. She would rush in, distraught. Somebody was after her. She had an enormous debt. Maybe her car had broken down. Of course I could help her. Whatever the scenario I'd take care of her.
I had a lot of time on my hands at that video store.
I was talking to her one day when this guy came in. A business man. Slick hair, suit, leather shoes - some kind of hotshot. It's always the hotshots who don't think before opening their goddamned mouths.
Mangleface was at my till. He took one look at her and his jaw dropped.
"Holy shit - what happened to your face!"
Silence. Nobody else was in the store.
"I'm sorry - I don't mean to pry - but Jesus Christ."
He turned to me.
"You seen this chick's face?"
"I seen it man. Settle down."
"I'm sorry. I just couldn't help it. What happened?"
Mangleface had a hard time controlling herself. She started trembling and the comers of her eyes were all wet and ready to burst.
"Car accident," she whispered.
"Jesus. That's tough."
I gave Mangleface her change. She left without saying anything. I wanted to hit the guy but I didn't have much justification. He wasn't trying to be cruel. He was just an asshole. Even after she was gone he couldn't let it go.
"Did you see that, man? I never seen anything like it."
He kept saying that. I kept telling him I'd seen it.
Eventually he left.
I started thinking of Mangleface outside of work. It was weird. My friends and I would be shooting hoops or down at the beach and suddenly she'd be in my head. It started to worry me because that usually only happens with girls I like. Somehow, without my realising it, Mangleface had become one of those girls. That was okay, I told myself. You don't have to tell anybody. You've got a secret crush on Mangleface - so what? It's not like you're going to do anything about it.
A date with Mangleface would be agonising. Everybody would stop and stare and wonder what the hell you were doing with a chick who's face looked like that. And those were just strangers. What would happen if my friends found out? Jesus Christ I'd never hear the end of it. My friends could be merciless like that. They were great, but I wouldn't have wanted them to see me with Mangleface.
Some days I wished everybody were blind.
At night, I slowly came to terms with my feelings for Mangleface.
I began to think of doing things with her. I focused on her body. That was safe. Her body was beautiful. I wouldn't admit to myself what I really wanted. Her body eased me into it.
I imagined running my hands over that body. I was always very tender with her. She was timid. It had been a long time since she had been appreciated. I took my time, kissing her legs, her belly, her breasts. I didn't look at her face, not at first. I approached it indirectly. I kissed her throat, her earlobes, the nape of her neck.
A few weeks went by before I imagined kissing her face.
It was a frightening experience. Her lips were dry. All the skin on her face was withered like a scorched prune. But I liked kissing her. it drove me crazy kissing those twisted lips. Soon enough we were making love. I fantasised about kissing her mangled face every night for months.
Though in my head we had gone all the way, during the day our relationship remained surprisingly chaste,. She would come in, wander for a bit, then ask my advice on picking a film. I'd walk with her down the aisles. Sometimes she wanted a horror, sometimes she wanted a love story. With Mangleface it was never the, same. I would take my time helping her. I knew that she wanted the company as much as my advice. She liked hearing me summarise the plots of films.
,,What about this one?"
"It's awesome. There's this guy who goes around killing people with his guitar."
"His guitar?"
"Yeah. It's got a drill attached to the end. It's this electric guitar and whenever he hits the strings the drill starts spinning and he drills people."
"That sounds hilarious."
"It is. You'd love it."
We, had pretty similar taste in films. That was part of why we got on so well. Any movie, I liked she usually liked. Or maybe she was just being nice to me because I was being nice to her. Maybe she secretly hated all those movies but kept renting them just so she wouldn't hurt my feelings.
I never thought of that.
I knew it had all finished with her boyfriend when he came in with another girl. She was beautiful. They were drunk. As they stumbled about the store he kept slipping his hand up her skirt. Whenever he did this, she would giggle.
They grabbed a movie at random and came to my till.
I wasn't interested in what he had done. I was more interested in her. I suspected I was looking at the previous version of Mangleface - the girl she'd been before the accident. It wasn't the same girl but it was the same type of girl. I didn't like her. She was too aware of her own beauty and too oblivious of everything else.
They took their movie without thanking me and staggered into the street.
Doors slammed. An engine roared to life. I looked out the window in time to see him fishtail around the comer, well on his way to creating another mangle-face.
I was happy about the break-up. My fantasy was coming true. Mangleface would need me more now that he was out of the way.
I was surprised when she didn't show up that week, or the week after.
I started to worry. I thought maybe having that asshole dump her had made her do something crazy. Maybe she'd killed herself. That would be terrible. Poor Mangleface. I ran countless scenarios through my head. She had cut her wrists. She had hung herself. She had overdosed on amphetamines. She had thrown herself off a bridge. Mangleface was no more. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Nobody would think to invite me to the funeral.

She came back.
1 hadn't seen her for a month. I heard the chime over the door and turned and there she was. She looked terrible. She'd really let herself go to pieces. She was wearing sweatpants and a dirty shirt and her hair looked like she'd stuck it in a fan.
I pretended not to notice.
"Hey - haven't seen you for awhile."
She twisted her face into a smile.
"No," she said.
"Are you okay?"
"No."
Then she started sobbing. She just stood there and sobbed and sobbed. I had imagined this. I went around to the other side of the counter and I held her. She smelled of tears and sweat. She felt small and fragile.
"It's okay," I said. "It's okay."
It was just like I'd hoped for. I was her great protector.
After a few minutes she stopped sobbing. I let go of her. She wiped her eyes. When she spoke she stared at a point on my chest.
"You know what's strange? I've gotten so used to seeing this face in the mirror that I can't tell how hideous it is anymore. I only remember when I see other people's reactions to it."
"It's not that bad."
"Don't lie."
"Okay, it's bad - but people can get used to anything."
She sniffed. "You don't react to it like other people."
"It doesn't bother me."
She looked up at me for the first time. She had beautiful eyes - two blue gems buried in a wasteland of facial tissue. I knew what was coming, but it still caught me off guard.
"But would you ever be able to kiss it?"
I thought of countless lonely nights, of all the times I'd kissed her in my mind.
"No," I lied.
That was it. She left and I never saw her again. It would have been okay if I'd been telling the truth. I don't know why I didn't. I would have kissed her. I wanted to. But I just couldn't admit that.
Least of all to her.