Essay and Short Story
Perfection?/Perfect Chaos. The steel door slid closed behind Jian with a quiet susurration, sealing the room with a series of soft mechanical clicks. The hideous moans of the Misbegotten that perpetually polluted the air faded. He was swallowed by sanctified silence. Even as his eyes struggled to adjust to the white sterility of the surgical floor, Jian felt the tension seep from his body. He was home. He waited as he had at every appointment, month after month, year after year. Repetition had dulled him to the monstrosity of what he was about to do. He could not live without a Body Surgeon, he reasoned. But the reasoning had become a mantra, an ever-‐crumbling self-‐delusion.
Mirrors lined the walls. Jian’s gaze was consumed by a form warped beyond recognition, modified in the unholy quest for perfection, that enigmatic ideal of consummate selfishness. He was terrible to behold, yet he had fallen in lust with the customization of self, the seduction of the scalpel, the syringe, the upgrades. He must be perfect. A receptionist appeared, twisted and untouchable in its haute couture