Chapter 17: Respect The Balance

Elisabeth jolted upright with a ragged gasp, lungs convulsing as if they had been starved of air. Her throat burned with rawness, every swallow sharp as broken glass. For a panicked moment she thought she was still drowning, still trapped in that suffocating black void from her dream. She clawed at her neck, coughed, spat into the shadows of the secret room.

The nightmare retreated only slowly, leaving her trembling in its wake. Her head throbbed, her body heavy, as though she had been beaten in her sleep. Every muscle ached. Her skin clung damp with sweat, and a sour taste coated her tongue.

Beside her, Sue lay motionless in stasis on the other side of the switch pipe, her pale face serene and untroubled. Elisabeth's eyes lingered on her, searching for comfort, for something to anchor her to reality. Instead she noticed the small glass vial lying on the floor like an abandoned relic, and the half-drained perfusion bag swinging from its hook. She frowned, her mind too foggy to stitch the fragments together.

With trembling fingers she clipped the fresh line to Sue's arm, a ritual she performed automatically, without thinking. Then, dragging her bathrobe around her shoulders, she staggered into the bathroom.

The light was merciless. In the mirror, her reflection startled her—sunken eyes, skin gray, lips cracked. A hangover, she thought, though it felt worse than any she had ever endured. She pressed her hand to the small of her back and winced. Pain radiated up her spine. She looked like a stranger in her own skin.

The hallway was no kinder. Elisabeth shuffled down it, bare feet whispering against the cold floorboards. The day had already broken, though its light felt thin and distant, like an accusation. She paused when she saw the trail: Sue's boots discarded like trophies, her leather catsuit peeled away and tossed in careless heaps, a bra dangling from the doorknob. The trail led straight to the bedroom where the bed lay unmade, sheets tangled, heavy with the memory of what had happened there.

What had happened there?

Elisabeth stared at the wreckage, grasping at her own memory as though it were a rope slipping through her fingers. Nothing came. Just blankness, a hole where the night should have been.

The living room was worse. Cigarette smoke lingered, stale and bitter, clinging to her robe. Ashtrays overflowed. Glasses littered the table, lipstick marks like bruises on their rims. The evidence of laughter, of chaos but none of it felt like hers.

At the window, a yellow post-it fluttered faintly in the draft. She leaned close, squinting at the scrawled words:

Too drunk to take the bike home. Keep an eye on her ;)TROY (812 674 839!)

Her breath caught. Something about the note—so ordinary, almost affectionate, made her stomach turn. She reached out, fingers trembling, but the moment her skin brushed the paper, a shock of revulsion shot through her. She recoiled as if burned.

Slowly and cautiously, she raised her hand into view.

And froze.

Her index finger was wrong. Crooked, swollen at the knuckle, the nail yellowed, the flesh puckered and thin like old parchment. An old woman's finger, horribly grafted to her otherwise youthful hand.

Elisabeth's pulse thundered in her ears. She stared at it in disbelief, terror spilling cold into her veins.

"What the…?" she whispered.

The word disintegrated in her throat, leaving her alone with the impossible truth staring back at her.

The bathroom door slammed behind her as she stumbled inside, chest heaving. She fumbled for the faucet, twisting the handle so hard the pipes shrieked in protest. Cold water gushed out in a furious stream, splattering against the porcelain.

Her index finger trembled as she thrust it under the water. She scrubbed at it, harder, faster, until her skin burned from the friction but the truth refused to wash away.

The finger was ruined.

She froze, staring at it under the harsh white light. The skin looked shriveled, withered, as if it belonged to someone decades older. Blue veins bulged like swollen rivers beneath the surface, twisting grotesquely around the knuckles that had ballooned into unnatural shapes.

Her stomach churned. This wasn't just damage. This was a transformation.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image clung to the inside of her lids. Her jaw tightened as memory and realization collided inside her like broken glass finding its shape.

Slowly, she turned toward the body. Sue lay sprawled across the tile floor, her skin already drained of color, her arm limp and useless by her side. The empty vial beside her caught the light, rolling slightly as if mocking her.

Her throat tightened. She reached back, lowering the collar of her bathrobe, twisting herself toward the mirror. The glass gave her no mercy. A red, swollen mark bloomed on the pale canvas of her back.

She touched it, then flinched.

Her hand gripped the sink for balance, the deformed finger stark against the porcelain, so alien it could have belonged to someone else.

A whisper slipped from her lips, raw and jagged: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

---

Elisabeth sat hunched at the kitchen table, the phone pressed against her ear, listening to the hollow bri-ing, bri-ing of the unanswered call. Each ring seemed to swell inside her skull, echoing against the dull ache in her spine. She sat up straighter, wincing as if the posture itself were an admission of weakness.

Through the picture window, Sue's billboard loomed — that enormous smile, lacquered and unbreakable, dazzling even in daylight. PUMP IT UP, the slogan demanded, as though joy could be mass-produced, bottled, and sold. Elisabeth felt the muscles around her mouth twitch, unsure whether to mimic the smile or recoil from it.

The line clicked. A voice that sounded cavernous, disembodied, and almost inhuman — filled her ear.

"Yes?"

Her throat tightened. She swallowed, forcing her own voice to surface."Yes, hi… this is Elisabeth Sparkle."

She paused, waiting. Nothing. Only the faint crackle of static, like distant fire. She glanced down at her hand, at the warped curve of her finger — the one she always tried to hide. The sight of it made her chest constrict, shame clawing at her from the inside.

"…on Beverly Drive?" she added quickly, her words collapsing into a hesitant stammer. "I am… uh… 503?"

"Yes."

The single word landed heavy, like a gavel. Elisabeth inhaled sharply, steeling herself.

"Listen…" She lowered her voice, as though someone in the empty kitchen might overhear. "There has been a slight… misuse. Of The Substance."

Her index finger rubbed against her palm, restless and guilty. "A few extra hours were… accidentally used. Causing—" she faltered, the word catching in her throat, "—an alteration."

The silence on the other end grew longer and thicker. Elisabeth shifted in her chair, the wood creaking beneath her.

"So… what's the procedure to reverse it?"

A crackle. Then the voice, flat and final said: What has been used on one side is lost on the other. There is no going back.

Her pulse spiked. "No, but listen," she rushed, her voice wobbling, "I don't know what she was thinking — she was drunk, obviously—"

Remember there is no 'she' and 'you.' You are one.

The words struck her harder than the silence. Elisabeth pressed her eyes shut, her face tightening as if she could squeeze her thoughts into coherence.

"…Right."

But memory was a blur, a smear across time. She tried again, desperately: "But I can't even remember what happened during the extra time! So there should b—"

The balance is perfect at seven days. Respect the balance and you won't have any more inconveniences.

The line went dead.

Then she sat frozen, the phone still at her ear. It felt as if the air had turned to lead, pressing her into the chair, pinning her in place. Only after a long moment did she move, abruptly, mechanically, as if her body had decided for her. She began tidying the wreckage of last night's gathering: empty glasses, greasy plates, ashtrays thick with stubs. The sour smell of stale smoke made her stomach turn. Disgusting.

She walked to the picture window, to Sue's relentless smile. A yellow post-it note clung to the glass like a parasite. With sudden violence she tore it down, crumpling the flimsy square into her fist before hurling it into the bin.

The trash bag bulged, uncooperative, but she pulled at the ties until they bit into her palms. Triple-knotted. Sealed tight. She threw a motorcycle helmet onto the landing, as though purging another memory she didn't want to keep.

Finally, she hauled the bag to the can, lifted the lid, and let it fall inside. From within the darkness of the trash, the world disappeared.