Chapter 10: Seven Vials

She walked down the street as though the pavement itself belonged to her. The sway of her hips was no longer tentative and no longer learning, this was a rhythm born from certainty. Men turned as women glanced sideways, even shop windows seemed to stretch their reflections longer to hold onto her image a moment more. Confidence radiated off her in invisible waves, and for the first time, she believed in the shape of her own allure.

But the confidence was not free.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator light spilled onto her face like a stage spotlight. Five vials remained, nestled like jewels beside their puncture syringe. Her hand reached in with casual precision, like someone plucking a pearl. Moments later, in the bathroom, the sharp sting in her thigh was followed by the familiar rush of heat spreading under her skin, a pulse that didn't quite belong to her, the certainty that her body was bending closer to perfection. Another vial clinked into the trash, joining four empties.

She signed the note to Maria with the practiced hand of someone stepping away from an old life: Had to go abroad unexpectedly… thank you for everything… A bribe of folded bills, a farewell written in someone else's name. Elisabeth was dissolving, letter by letter, while Sue began to bloom.

The closet sealed the transformation. Elisabeth's sober wardrobe shoved to the margins with one sweeping gesture, leaving room for sequins, neon colors, daring cuts. Fabrics that declared rather than suggested. Clothes that belonged to a woman who was seen, desired and remembered.

The phone was next: a pink toy of a thing, silly and bold, a complete inversion of Elisabeth's golden restraint. When it rang with Louis Prima's jaunty cheer, Sue laughed out loud. Even the soundtrack of her life was changing.

Through the peephole, Maria's eyes widened at the sight of money. Gratitude? Suspicion? Sue didn't stay long enough to interpret. With a flick of her manicured finger, the cover snapped shut. That life of kindness, obligation and history was safely sealed on the other side of the door.

The bedroom became a jewel box. Satin sheets, powder-pink, shimmered as they unfurled. She fell back into them, luxuriating in their cool softness, letting them swallow her whole. Above her, the IV bag dripped, marking its quiet countdown, the liquid trickling into her veins even as the last notes of Louis Prima faded.

And finally, the robe that was silk and embroidered with an orange-and-gold dragon that seemed to breathe in the darkness. She stood before the window, her back to the city, the dragon alive across her shoulders, glowing as if lit from within. She imagined she could feel it unfurling its wings beneath her skin, lifting her higher and stronger.

But with the glow came a faint hiss in her ears, a ringing, soft at first—then sharper. She tilted her head, unsure if it was inside or outside. The city's lights sparkled below her, indifferently.

As the dragon burned brighter in the silence.

---

On the bathroom tiles, the IV bag sagged, its last clear drops trembling before they vanished. The syringe barrel, once neatly divided, lay empty on the cabinet shelf. Seven vials, seven doses had been spent.

Sue studied her reflection in the mirror, skin flushed, eyes bright but edged with fatigue. A different kind of countdown ticked inside her chest. It was time.

She unhooked the robe from her shoulders, letting the silk puddle onto the tiles. Naked, she knelt beside Elisabeth's still form. For a moment she only looked at the pale face, the slack hands, the reminder of what she had been. The card on the cabinet shelf was blunt in its command:

YOU SWITCH every seven days no matter what.

She took the pipe marked SWITCH. Her fingers trembled as she clipped it onto the empty IV line, then slid the other needle into the tender inside of her own arm. A sting, a hesitation, then the red flood began.

Blood threaded through the transparent tubing, sluggish at first, then pulsing in rhythm, two rivers converging and crossing. Between bodies. Between selves.

At once, Sue's breath hitched. The colors around her dulled, as though the room were being drained of paint. Her limbs grew heavy, her head hollow. She twisted the needle instinctively, trying to will life back, but the emptiness only deepened. Cold pressed in like water filling her lungs.

The buzzing began low, like a wire straining, then rose into a shriek that split her skull. Her vision warped as the edges of the bathroom bent, sliding apart and then—

SMACK!

The sound of matter colliding. The sensation of her body folding and collapsing. She pitched forward, head slamming against the tiles.

Then followed darkness.

Then the silence rippled. The black quivered like film stock gone rotten. A grain appeared, spreading, jittering. In the center, a dot that was faint, pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

Ba-boom.…pause. Ba-boom.

The dot swelled, shimmered, broke apart and reformed, taking on shape. Two wheels. A frame. A headlight glowing like a single malignant eye.

A motorcycle.

It tore through the grainy dark like a ghost out of negative film, engine unheard, only the thunder of the heart driving it closer and closer.

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

The machine filled the screen of her mind, speeding directly at her, unstoppable, certain, the impact seconds away.

And just as the world was about to split apart—

It became completely dark once again.

Then, Air.

It tore into her throat like fire as she jolted upright, coughing and gagging. Her lungs convulsed as if they had never learned how to breathe. She clawed at her own chest, desperate, like a fish thrown on a dock, gills snapping at nothing.

Something heavy pinned her down. A body. Smooth skin, warm still, but limp. Sue. Elisabeth struggled beneath her until, with a cry, she shoved the dead weight onto its side. She lay there a moment longer, chest heaving, waiting for the world to steady.

Her veins still pulsed with the ghost of the switch as her head spun, muscles trembling, each nerve half-dead, as though her body had forgotten how to hold itself up. She gripped the sink to keep from collapsing, nails digging into the porcelain.

Then, slowly, she raised her eyes.

The mirror did not lie.

Her face looked ashen, slick with sweat, eyelashes clumped like wet ash. Her lips cracked, her mouth dry as sand. Her whole reflection sagged, like something that had been abandoned too long. She turned, shivering, and caught sight of her back in the mirror's edge.

The scar.

A brutal seam, stitched tight, ran the length of her spine, from neck to tailbone. It throbbed as if the sutures had only just been sewn. She touched it lightly, flinching at the fire under her skin.

Her bathrobe hung nearby. She pulled it on and cinched the belt hard at her waist, trying to summon warmth that refused to come. Her body felt used up, as if she were waking from some narcotic haze, brittle and cold as every cell starved.

Her gaze fell back to the tiles. To Sue.

So young. So flawless. The girl's chest did not rise. The lips were parted slightly, still painted with that careless pink gloss. Elisabeth stared as though she were seeing herself for the first time—herself, but not herself—laid out like a mannequin discarded on the floor.

With a trembling hand, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out the second IV bag. The one labeled FOOD / OTHER SELF. She slipped the needle into Sue's arm almost tenderly, like a mother feeding her sleeping child.

Then she turned away. Step by step, weak but steady, she moved into the corridor, leaving perfection behind her on the bathroom tiles.