The lights in the room seem brighter than they did an hour ago. I know that they’re not, but my eyes are telling me otherwise. My pupils strain to adjust to my surroundings as they’re continually bathed in the florescent lighting of the Bryce Ellington Medical Center. I resist the urge to rub my eyes as my face twitches with slight discomfort. My vision is a little grainy and it feels like my retinas have been replaced by a set of old film reels, but that’s to be expected. Everyone feels this way whenever they first wake up. The only difference here is that I never really “woke up.” Instead, it would probably be more accurate to say that I regained consciousness. In order to wake up, people generally tend to open their eyes and emerge from a dark and dream-filled space. I did nothing of the sort.

My eyelids have just been surgically removed, and I could not be more ecstatic.

I lift my right arm and grip the support rail that runs alongside my hospital bed. The metal rod feels cool and smooth on the palm of my hand, offsetting the dull ache that lingers in my eyes, and the room swims from beneath a thin layer of fluid. A little post-surgical discharge isn’t uncommon. I pull myself upright and feel it trickle down the sides of my face. A burst of cold air crashes against my eyes as I momentarily forget that I don’t have eyelids to shut. They’re still more sensitive than I imagined. Thankfully, my vision is slowly returning to its normal state.

The hospital room I’m staying in is nothing impressive, which is a little surprising considering Bryce Ellington’s reputation. This isn’t the Medical Valley East or United Regional; actresses like Emma Roberts and Margot Robbie come to Bryce Ellington. Still, a set of four white walls surround me. There’s no mimosa waiting for me by my bedside, no attractive hospital worker fawning over me and my wellbeing, and the interior design of the room feels dated by at least two decades. Instead, I am treated to a single window which overlooks the facility’s parking lot, a framed stock photograph of the San Francisco skyline, and two empty chairs designated for visitors. The staff was kind enough to leave me a copy of the magazine that I’ve asked for on the nightstand next to my bed. I cautiously turn towards it and place the magazine down on my lap.

I stare down at the recent edition of Vogue in front of me. I know that it’s a recent edition for two reasons: One, it’s the Spring Fashion Issue which typically comes out each March. Two, Naomi Campbell looks breathtaking. She has always been pretty but her recent surgery elevated her to next level status. Naomi has recently undergone eyelid reduction surgery as well, also at the Bryce Ellington, and was the latest name among a small group A-listers to have the procedure done. Her name has been everywhere from Seventeen to InStyle, and for good reason. Her range and ability to wear damn near anything has just expanded far beyond the average person’s wildest dreams.

This is the real reason that everyone has for getting the operation done. When someone opts to have eyelid reduction surgery and have their eyelids sheared off, they don’t simply just wander back into the public eye; that would be barbaric. What happens next involves taking a trip to a high-end boutique and shopping for new ones. From what I’ve read, this is the part that quickly becomes addicting. Depending on the contour of your face, your body’s natural bone structure, the style of clothing that you were planning on wearing that evening, and your personal makeup preferences, there are nearly endless possibilities to choose from. Certain styles of eyelids are now even being packaged with specific makeup kits in order to achieve particular looks. It’s marketing genius. I already have two sets preordered, but there are so many to choose from. Vogue will often provide their readers with brief descriptions of some of the currently trending styles, and I skip over to the two that I’ve purchased.

Hooded eyelids, like those of Jennifer Lawrence and Blake Lively, are defined by an extra flap of skin which hangs over the corners of the eye. This look is particularly desirable in North America and helped define the quintessential “it girl” look of that region. It’s a tried-and-true style. Hooded eyelids, along with a small amount of blush, a half-decent highlighter stick, and some eyeshadow primer allow women to pull off bolder Hollywood makeup choices with confidence.

Monolids, more commonly associated with Asian culture and women such as Sora Choi, are better suited towards capturing an authentic eastern fashion style. It is a striking and transformative look that many western girls could only ever dream of pulling off. No white girl from rural Pennsylvania is going to look right in Harajuku decora without fully committing to a set of monolids as well. But now, all of this is possible with one simple surgery.

My mouth still tastes faintly of bubblegum flavored anesthesia as I smile proudly.

I set the copy of Vogue aside when I notice a nurse walk into the room from hallway. She looks to be in her mid-forties and still in decent shape for her age. Her shoulder length blonde hair might be dyed, but the color tone suits her. The backs of her hands have wrinkles to them, but they aren’t nearly as noticeable as most women her age. She looks to be a light seven on the attraction meter and most of the older male patients probably drool over her. Her eyelids are natural though. She smiles at me, but her eyelids are now the only thing that I’m thinking about.

“Rise and shine. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess. My vision was a little blurry earlier and my eyes are a little dry, but that’s all. Still well enough to read Vogue.”

I gesture to her with the magazine like she has no idea what Vogue is. For all I know, she doesn’t. She’s at the age where she might think that fashion magazines are beneath her and she doesn’t need any tips or advice. She might not even be a reader. My response makes her laugh in a particular way that sounds put on and rehearsed. It certainly doesn’t sound like any authentic laughter I’ve ever heard before. She might not think that I notice, but I do.

“Well, that’s definitely a great sign. See any looks in there that you like? The Spring Fashion edition is my favorite.”

“I’m no Jennifer Lawrence, but she’s making me want to try to be. Hooded eye seems to be in right now, anyway. Do you know what eyelid type you are?”

I throw in the last sentence not because I care, but because I’m beginning to feel patronized. To this nurse, I probably seem like a freak. I’m just another dumb girl in her early twenties and she’s the wise know-it-all elder type. To her generation, this probably seems closer to mutilation than it does cosmetic surgery. If she does her fake laugh one more time, I might snap.

“No, I don’t think that I do. I guess I –”

“You’ve got a classic almond shape to your eyes; at least as far as I can tell. Your eyes are slightly upturned, so you probably use shadow mainly around your outer lower corners. You should really consider looking into eyelid reduction. That way, you could fit into all the spring styles you like instead of just a handful of them.”

The nurse laughs again in the same forced tone, but this time it’s actually funny to me. I can tell that she is uncomfortable. The room belongs to me, and she needed to be reminded of that. I’m the one who just woke up from surgery. This is my time. The last thing that I need is for some aging blonde talk down to me about my life choices.

Fuck. That.

“I’ll go and let the doctor know that you’re ready,” the nurse exclaims. “He’ll want to take a look at you before he clears you to leave. He’ll be by sometime in the next thirty minutes or so.”

I respond back with an overly-sweet smile, forgetting again that I no longer have eyelids to squint with, and stare back down at the copy of Vogue on my bed. In this moment, I’m thankful that the magazine is still here. It distracts me from the mental image of how stupid I must have looked giving a full grin with my eyes bulging out from my face. I continue to flip through the magazine pages until the nurse’s footsteps grow faint. When I can no longer hear them, I set the magazine back down.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, standing up from the bed.

I waste no time gathering my belongings. I change out of my hospital clothes and back into my own, and apply the set of temporary eyelids left by my bedside. I don’t want to wait thirty minutes to begin living my new life, and if the doctor is anything like his staff, I certainly don’t need his permission to do so. My life is not something can just be paused and resumed at any given moment. I’m not a product that can be shelved. I take one last look around the room before I take off and run through the halls.

My hospital room is located on the second floor of the Bryce Ellington and it takes me about thirty steps for me to reach the east wing stairwell. I charge past multiple staff members and several other hospital patients as I race through the facility. Some of them plea for me to slow down while others glare angrily, but I don’t care. Their opinions don’t matter. I’ll be out of this facility soon and they can go back to living whatever life they choose. This is the life that I’ve chosen for myself. I adjust my temporary eyelids as I push my way through the lobby doors and stumble into the parking lot.

I can see my white BMW in the distance. It’s parked several hundred feet away in the upper lot, and I begin to jog towards a small flight of cement steps which connects the upper and lower levels. My headlights flash in the distance as I hit the unlock button on my key fob. The voices of several staff members boom loudly behind me, but I don’t stop and listen. The hospital already has my information. They know where I live and how to find me. I’m sure they won’t have any issues mailing my medical bills directly to me. I have a life to live.

Suddenly, I feel something wet strike the side of my face. 

I look up at the sky and notice that it’s much darker than I remember. Several large gray clouds gather overhead as another raindrop hits my face. The voices behind me are growing louder and I’m becoming frustrated by the situation. My eyes begin to twitch, but that’s normal for me. I’m a passionate person and sometimes my eyes quiver when I’m upset. I force myself to jog faster as I reach the top of the steps and enter the upper lot.

There are more people up here than I expected. A cool breeze sends another tingle across my face, but I can still navigate my way through the crowded lot. The rain is beginning to pick up and I have to resort to lifting my purse up over my head. My Prada bag provides me with little shelter from the storm and I quickly realize that my efforts are in vain. I’m failing in spectacular fashion.

I notice that some of the people in parking lot are now staring at me. Half of them don’t even look like they’re concerned about making it to their cars anymore. Instead, they just stand in silence and look at me like I’m some kind of freak. One woman is even holding her hand over her mouth as if to cover a scream. This angers me, but I’m too confused by what’s happening around me to confront her. I’m tired and I just want to go home. I reach my BMW, thankful to finally get out of the rain, and begin to open the car door.

My eyes shift quickly from the door handle to the tinted windows, and my jaw begins to quiver as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. Now I understand why everyone is staring at me. My eyes weren’t twitching because I was angry. My eyes feel more sensitive because my left eyelid is missing. It’s not hanging off my face or out of place; it’s simply gone. I look like a Barbie doll that’s been stuck inside microwave. It is beyond mortifying and feel as if I’m about to faint. With all the energy I can gather, I do the only thing that I can think of and scream louder than I ever have in my entire life. I ball my hands tightly into fists as a mixture of tears and rain roll down my face.

I’m so pathetic, I can’t even weep properly.

I fling open the doors to my BMW and disappear behind a set of heavily tinted windows. The people outside continue to stare. I feel completely undressed by their eyes and am so embarrassed that I can barely see straight. Fuck it. I need two eyelids to do things like that and I won’t be finding them here. The car roars to life as I stomp on the gas pedal and the tires squeal loudly. I fly through the crowded lot and am back on the highway before the driver’s seat finishes adjusting back to my personal settings.

My hands grip the wheel so hard that my fingernails puncture the leather covering. A ruined manicure means nothing to me. All that matters is that no one else sees me until my express-order lids arrive at my home. My reputation won’t be ruined before my new identity even begins. I speed up as I weave into the left lane and hear the blare of a car horn behind me. The noise causes my hands to flutter along the front of the steering wheel, bumping into several buttons and switches, and I have to swerve to regain control. My adrenaline spikes as I go to return the favor, but suddenly feel a slight tug along the side of my face.

It's now that I realize that the sunroof of my BMW has crept open and my one remaining eyelid flutters off like a fleshy butterfly.

I-280 becomes a blur of color as I try desperately to focus on the road ahead. I fumble around for the switch on my steering wheel to close the sunroof, but I can’t seem to find it. My hand flops around helplessly as I strain what’s left of my eyesight onto the car in front of me. The wind is too distracting for me to fully concentrate. It grates against my eyes like sandpaper and all I want to do is make it stop. I raise one arm up along my forehead like a visor to shield my face, but it’s not helping. The pain is too intense and it leaves me with only one option.

My tires skid wildly as my seatbelt locks tightly across my chest. The dark circles burned into my vision continue to linger even as my car rapidly decelerates. I press the brake pedal to the floor. My tires are burning nearly as bad as my eyes, more car horns blare, and a metallic crunch sends the back of my BMW into the air.

For a moment, I’m weightless.

The sound of broken glass rings in my ear as my car fishtails and begins to roll. I don’t need to see my rearview mirror to know that it’s shattered. It’s just one less thing I have to look at myself with. As I lay upside down, still strapped to the seat of my car, I find myself laughing as I question if my insurance will cover facial reconstructive surgery. A thin stream of blood squirts through my teeth.

I might be the first person in the world to end up looking better after a car accident than before. I can only hope that the next hospital that I am shipped to carries Vogue.