Chapter 2: Disposable Perfection

The floor thundered with synchronized stomps. Fluorescent sneakers pounded the glossy studio tiles, their rubber soles squeaking in rhythm. Legs moved in unison, tight in candy-colored spandex of pinks, neon, electric greens that pulsed under the white-hot blaze of overhead lights. Muscles flexed. Smiles stretched. Sweat didn't drip, it sparkled.

In the corner, a red light blinked steadily.

Recording.

Every frame a product.

At the center of the chaos, perfectly framed and perfectly lit, stood Elisabeth Sparkle.

Nearly fifty. You wouldn't know it unless you were allowed to look too closely and no one was. Her body was a monument to discipline, sculpted and hardened like something cast in plastic. Not a ripple, not a tremor. Just relentless energy. A bright white smile that never flickered. Eyes wide. Movements sharp. Every beat, every breath, choreographed to serve one singular message:

This is what happiness looks like.

Behind her, a glowing banner stretched across the studio wall like the gate to a cult: SPARKLE YOUR LIFE With Elisabeth

The studio pulsed to the rhythm of factory-produced joy. Music blasted with bright synths, programmed drums, melodies engineered for motivation. The lyrics, if there were any, were irrelevant. What mattered was volume. Tempo and Optimism.

"And step! Two-three-four!" "That's right, gorgeous people! Sparkle! Sparkle!" "No pain, no shame , only gains!"

Her voice was electric, fueled by protein shakes and scripted enthusiasm. But beneath the grin, something else coiled. Something brittle. Like a wire pulled too tight. You could almost hear it beneath the claps, the stomps, the flashing lights and the silent whine of a smile stretched past the point of comfort.

The other instructors mirrored her every move, their grins just a few degrees less convincing. The camera cut between them, between bouncing ponytails and gleaming abs, capturing motivation in HD. No shadows. No doubts. No days off.

And Elisabeth, always center frame, radiated flawless permanence.

As if she'd never been anything else. As if she had never not been perfect.

"Keep moving! That's great! You got it!"

Elisabeth's voice rang out like a whistle in a parade, sharp, unwavering and impossibly cheerful.

Dozens of legs pounded in unison, fluorescent and fast. Pink, teal, neon yellow. They moved like machinery, stomping the ground with military rhythm. Not a single step out of place. Smiles were wide, teeth blazing under the studio lights. They looked like athletes. They looked like dolls.

And Elisabeth never stopped smiling.

It was etched there in her cheeks, her jaw, her eyes that crinkled in perfect symmetry. Her body snapped through the motions with mechanical grace, tight muscles glistening under the heat. She was the rhythm. The tone. The command.

"I know it's hard! Walk it back!" "That's great, couple more, ladies!" "Think about your bikini this summer!"

The camera panned across her face as she laughed on cue, like this was all a private joke she was generously sharing with her audience.

"You don't want to look like a giant jellyfish on the beach, do you? So keep moving! Couple more... we're almost there... aaaaand..."

The music hit its final note.

In one synchronized movement, the dancers threw their arms up and held their pose. A moment of triumph looking breathless and perfect.

"...Give yourselves a hand! That was a GREAT workout!"

Applause broke out their hands clapping, breath panting, laughter filling the soundstage. Elisabeth turned to face the camera, her smile now beaming at full wattage.

"I'll see you next week to work more on the lateral abs, those are the hardest to sculpt. In the meantime... take care of yourself!"

She blew a kiss.

The red light on the camera stopped blinking. The overheads dimmed. The illusion collapsed.

Elisabeth's smile dropped in an instant, falling from her face like something she'd taken off. Her shoulders sagged, her posture broke. For the first time in twenty-eight minutes, she looked real.

Soaked in sweat, she bent forward slightly, catching her breath, really catching it. Her lungs pulled hard as her knees trembled.

She pressed a hand against her right leg, grimacing. The joint flared beneath her palm feeling inflamed. She massaged it gently, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor.

A quiet moment passed.

An assistant appeared, wordless, placing a folded towel and a chilled water bottle in her hand. Elisabeth didn't thank her. She didn't even look at her. She just took them and nodded once, still not breathing right.

She wiped her face, careful not to smear what was left of the makeup.

And then, she turned.

And from behind her,

The muscles of her back rippled as she walked, tense with effort. Her ponytail bobbed in rhythm with her slow, deliberate steps. Around her, crew members began moving again, pulling cables, dimming monitors, replacing perfection with routine.

Elisabeth Sparkle left the spotlight.

And for a few precious seconds, she was no one at all.

Elisabeth moved down the hallway like she was still on camera, posture high with her chin lifted, smile perfectly in place. The towel from the studio was gone, her makeup retouched, her ponytail tightened. Whatever exhaustion clung to her minutes ago had been buried under practiced poise.

"Happy Birthday, Elisabeth!" "Looking fabulous today!" "You're glowing!"

The greetings came fast and easy, from assistants, interns, camera operators, always accompanied by wide, bright grins that matched the studio lights. She returned them all with cheerful nods and air light thanks, her tone calibrated just above sincerity.

She had been doing this long enough to know: people don't actually see you — they see what they're used to seeing. The projection. The poster & The brand.

And the brand sparkled.

Along the corridor walls, dozens of framed posters paraded her own image back at her, one from every season of Sparkle Your Life. It was a timeline in still frames.

In the earliest posters, her smile was wilder, freer — hair big, frizzed to perfection, a flare of the early 2000s aesthetic. Her body glistened in bright pink Lycra, tanned and bold, arms raised mid-aerobic bounce. The energy was chaotic, youthful and uncontainable.

The posters evolved as she did or rather, as her image was refined. The hair got sleeker. The color schemes shifted from hot pinks to icy pastels. Her waist, already toned, became impossibly narrow. Her skin smoothed. Her teeth whitened past realism. In the most recent photos, her face hovered just shy of uncanny, not ageless, but digitally eternal.

She paused for half a second in front of one from five years ago. Her smile in that poster was identical to the one she wore now. Every tooth visible and very muscle tight.

She moved on.

At the end of the hall, she turned the corner toward the restroom. The door to the women's room stood closed, a plastic sign propped in front: OUT OF ORDER – CLEANING IN PROGRESS

Elisabeth hesitated and the looked back.

The hallway was empty now. Birthday greetings had faded behind her. The lighting here was cooler and less forgiving.

Without another glance, she stepped through the next door — MEN — and disappeared inside.

The men's room was still.

Empty, silent and sterile.

She closed the door behind her and leaned over the row of sinks, bracing herself on porcelain with damp palms. The mirror in front of her was unflattering, not because of the face it reflected, but because of the lighting. Fluorescent white, flat and unforgiving, revealing everything. No shadows. No softness. Just the truth.

She cupped her hands under the faucet, splashed cold water across her cheeks, and inhaled slowly. It stung her eyes. Her skin flushed pink under the sudden chill, makeup dissolving at the edges of her jawline. She pressed her fingers gently beneath each eye, tracing the faint shadows that always returned too quickly these days, even after the best concealers.

A moment. That's all she needed.

She turned and stepped into the nearest stall, locking the door behind her with a metallic snap. The space was narrow and airless. She sat down slowly, not because she had to, but because she could. Here, finally, no one was watching.

Outside, the bathroom remained still.

The row of sinks glowed under the relentless white light, a static frame that remained motionless. The hum of the neon fixtures vibrated faintly in the silence, a background noise so constant it vanished from awareness.

Then, suddenly, the door slammed open.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

"I don't care if we have to see EVERY FUCKING YOUNG GIRL in town in the next couple of weeks..."

The voice was loud, angry, cracking with impatience. A man's voice, nasal and commanding, his boots echoing across the tiles. He paced while barking into a phone, unaware or unconcerned that he wasn't alone.

"We need her YOUNG. We need her HOT. And we need her NOW."

Elisabeth didn't move.

Her breath held itself.

In the stall, the voice seemed to pour through the thin metal walls like acid. She stared at the floor, the cheap tile, the gap beneath the door and said nothing. She didn't even blink.

The man kept pacing, swearing, making decisions that erased people like pencil marks.

And outside her stall, the world turned without her.

NOTE:

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