The wind was so cold it cut through what little I was wearing, straight through my skin and down to my white, bare bones. I smiled for the camera, silent. Normally, photoshoots in Phoenix were warm: arid landscapes baked under the hot sun, my skin warm, my smile not so forced. This time, though, the wind cut through the thin silk this particular client had dressed me in; the normally dry landscape had become a desolate wasteland....
-I'm cold, I said meekly, and the photographer lowered his camera to reveal his annoyed eyes. It was the look that froze me- or more precisely, my heart. To be a model is
to be perfect- perfection doesn't shiver, even
under a stare like that.
-What? he asked, as if daring me to repeat myself, as we waited for the clouds to part and the sun to reappear. It would give us the proper lighting to make the perfect shot.
-Nothing, I said and shook my head. As a model, I was not allowed to feel- not even the cold.
It wasn't long after the photoshoot ended that I could
sense something wasn't right. I began to feel very hot,
then very cold. My throat, on fire. It was a sickness that
had lodged itself in my soul, and that had started to
creep out, slowly, under the guise of the common cold
which turned to strep throat.
Beneath the coughing, beneath the fever, the coldness
spread. It was only a matter of time before a much
darker truth would surface.
