The 2nd Day of Reconstruction

         I step out of my apartment and walk down the bleak streets, between the gray buildings- symmetrical, perfectly spaced. Ladder under one arm, art set in the other, I scan blank walls for the perfect spot for my second day on the job. The bare streets still feel unfamiliar without the usual bustle of people, and feels eerie without the chaos of the fear of the Regulators, who had been present all my 23 years. It has only been three weeks. I turn down street 43 J, where I worked yesterday, and am caught by surprise. I see about eight or nine people, more people I have seen in one place in these last three weeks, save for the Task Meeting yesterday. They are silent, crowded around the building I painted just 24 hours ago, eyes up, mouths open.

         My mural is the only spark of color on the whole block. Facing the crowd is a woman, with long black hair on a Modigliani length face. Her neck is short, sharply sloping into drooped shoulders, connected to a round body. Her fatness embraces the streets, her green patterned dress taking up half the block, contrasting with the bright purple background. Her chubby arms rest on her pale stubby legs; she is in a reclining position. Her eyes shine a brighter green today, thanks to the pleasant weather, while her relaxed mouth is slightly turned up at the corners. Despite her massive size and her 2D appearance, she appeared alive. I strive for a realism. I look at the others, straining my ears towards a pair of women’s whispers.

“Look at those arms”.
“That smile…she knows something.”
“Yeah, it’s as if… she’s happy?”
“Proud. As if she likes herself.”
“She feels beautiful.”
“She is beautiful.”

         At those words, I know this project will work. My Task was to paint images beautifying flaws of naturally born people. At first I was uncertain. Up until the last three weeks, we the Natural Borns had lived in the shadows of Regulated Beauty. Until three weeks ago, May 4th 2178, the NB’s lived under strict rules from the Regulators, banned from schools, forbidden to reproduce. Little did the regulators know, the practice of DNA alteration to meet Regulated Beauty standards would result in weakened immune systems. None of the RBs survied Megiddo, leaving us NBs free for the first time without the fear of Regulators. Yesterday was the start of the age of Reconstruction. Without any experienced leadership, we gathered in a building to discuss our future and choose Tasks. RB was the norm for over 150 years, we have no idea how to run a society. We choose our Tasks based on our skills and what we felt we could do to further progression. NBs have always been looked upon as ugly, not fit to be a part of mainstream society. I made it my job to use art to bring beauty to our streets and inside ourselves. If one can look at a woman, who would not meet the standards of RB, and still see beauty, there is hope for my project.

“She is beautiful.”

         I smile and walk away. I must start a new mural today. I search my brain for inspiration, and land on the first NB I met, other than myself. He too, was a first generation NB, parents rebel RBs, like mine, who resented the fact their DNA was altered before birth. I had never met another person who wasn’t perfect. I was 8 years old that day. His nose was crooked, where I had a bumpy one, but I remembered a pleasant awkwardness he had in his thin, overgrown legs. I had heard he killed himself before he reached 18.
I set up the ladder and open my paint set.

You will be beautiful.