Words: Briana Uzorka (she/her)
‘So, you’ve been at it for three years now?’ he asked.
‘Give or take,’ she replied, smiling.
I watched from the audience. Her voice carried this arrogance that felt like needles poking at my eardrums.
‘How does it feel coming up to such a high point in your career so soon? In just 3 years, you’ve taken photographs that have amassed worldwide acclaim, you were spotlighted as one of the best emerging photographers in the country, and now you’re competing against Athena Promachos for a million-dollar grant. I mean, it must be surreal.’
She paused before answering, then smiled.
The cameras stopped rolling, and I watched her strut off to her dressing room. Her exit was accompanied by murmurs of her greatness – everyone had something to say about Arachne. I hated hearing her name next to mine.
I sat still in my seat, watching as the intricately woven talk show set came undone. The audience dissipated slowly, pouring out the sides of the room. I stood up to go, but I was stopped in my tracks by a familiar and grating voice.
‘Athena?’ he asked.
‘Hello, Mark,’ I spoke back politely. Docile. ‘Great interview tonight,’ I added, and he smiled back with that characteristic repulsiveness I’ve come to associate with his matte yellow teeth.
‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she?’
I nodded amiably.
He looked expectantly at me, like I was supposed to offer some grand words of praise: she was the young superstar, rags-to-riches, the best thing since sliced bread. Or, in this case, since me.
‘She reminded me a lot of when you were on here, d’you remember? You were around the same age, no? Seventeen? You both have that same spark in your eyes – that fierceness.’ He looked at me proudly as I stepped away.
I was 16. It was the night of the ceremony. The banquet hall was a web of elites and upper echelons on the prowl for the next young and fresh thing to trap: they all feigned an illusion of interest in the art and the culture. They stood and talked about composition as though it wasn’t clear that the collective aim was possession. Everyone in that room wanted to take ownership of the discovery of something new.
I saw her first. She wore a black dress that stopped right above her ankles, just enough room to reveal the thin heels she balanced on top of. Her lace gloves made her arms appear insect-like as she stepped towards her seat in very precise movements. Everything about her seemed carefully constructed.
She was mid-yawn when they called her up on stage for the grant. Her disinterest was quickly masked with an unbearably fake performance of joy. She waltzed onto the stage, tip-toeing past the crowds – the framed pictures that made my legacy – ignoring everything that came before her as she rushed to accept her reward. The entire room was entranced by her: chants stirred their way up from the depths of the audience’s bellies and out through their mouths, bubbling up their oesophaguses. As the ceremony came to a close, I quickly darted towards the door, content to abandon the scene as soon as possible. I was stopped in my tracks by an unfamiliar touch, coaxing me in. I turned to face her up close for the first time. She stared at me with a look of blamelessness in her eyes.
‘It was an honour competing against you. I’ve always really admired your work.’ She grinned at me, and her hand slid off my arm as though she had been measuring me. I nodded uncomfortably as she awkwardly turned towards the direction of the bathroom.
I followed her without hesitation. I stood at the sink whilst she was in the cubicle. I fiddled around inside my purse until I found the little bottle I’d prepared earlier. The toilet flushed, the stall door swung open, and then she walked to the sink without acknowledging me. I aimed for her eyes and splashed the contents of my bottle at her. I watched her writhe and squeal in pain at my feet for at least 30 seconds before I walked out the door. When I left, I didn’t feel victory or joy. In fact, I felt rather indifferent. This was my restoration of order.
The organisation ended up investing the grant money into her treatment, though it was futile, really. The doctors didn’t anticipate the return of sight in her eyes. I visited her once. I saw her lying pathetically on the plastic hospital bed, bandages covering her face. Her cold, limp hand tightly gripped mine as I sat beside her.
‘I’m glad it’s you who can still see,’ she said softly, lacking that abrasive arrogance.
Sometimes, when I take photos, I can feel her cold flesh against mine.
