Chapter 18: Her and Not-Her

Elisabeth leaned toward the bathroom mirror, her nightgown hanging loosely from her shoulders, the silk catching the weak light above the sink. Her reflection looked back at her with the severity of a stranger — the pursed lips, the clenched jaw, the accusing stare of a woman she no longer recognized.

The toothbrush scraped rhythmically against her teeth — up, down, back and forth — a harsh ritual that seemed more punishment than hygiene. The bristles foamed with toothpaste and spit, and at the center of it all, her gnarled finger guided the motion, crooked and stiff, betraying the steady erosion of her body. She could feel the deformity more than she saw it, as though her entire hand had been branded with a shame she could not wash away.

She rinsed, gargled and spat. The sounds echoed in the tiled room, hollow, almost clinical. When she placed the toothbrush back in its glass, her hand trembled faintly, betraying a frustration she had grown skilled at hiding.

From habit more than desire, she reached for the night cream. Ultimate Youth, the jar declared in bold silver letters, as if mocking her. Intensive regenerating night cream. She traced the inscription with her thumb, her chest tightening as she considered the promise it dangled — a promise made a thousand times before, always broken.

She unscrewed the lid slowly. Inside, the cream gleamed like some artificial snow, impossibly white and smooth. She dipped the crooked finger into it, deeper, deeper still, until the joint disappeared in the glossy substance. She twisted slightly, watching the cream cling thickly to her skin. It looked less like a treatment and more like a burial shroud — a tiny poultice dressing a wound that would never heal.

Her free hand rummaged through the cabinet until it found the crepe bandage. With careful precision, she wrapped the finger, winding layer upon layer until it resembled a small, cocooned doll. She pressed lightly, testing it. Cream seeped through the bandage in a slow, oozing release. That was good, she told herself. It was soaking in. Working, maybe.

In the mirror, her own eyes watched her, looking skeptical, hopeful and cruel all at once. She clicked off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her wrapped finger resting delicately on the sheets as though it were something separate from her, something fragile she dared not disturb. The moonlight caught the palm tree outside, its shadow sprawling across the room like a monstrous spider. Elisabeth remained perfectly still beneath it, frozen in her own body, as if motion alone might betray the hope she barely allowed herself to feel.

By morning, the sunlight poured in. The bed bore the clear outline of her body and proof she had not moved, not even once, as though the night had passed without her permission.

Back in the bathroom, she unraveled the bandage with painstaking care. Each layer revealed more of the finger, her breath tightening with dread. The cream had hardened overnight, forming a chalky plaster that cracked and flaked against the skin. With trembling hands, she ran water over it, watching the crust dissolve slowly down the drain.

And then she saw.

Nothing had changed.

The same gnarled finger. The same brown spots, the twisted knuckle, the stubborn ugliness that no cream or prayer could erase.

Her throat closed. Her eyes burned, but she fought to keep the tears contained. She would not let them win. She would not collapse. Yet her hand shook violently, betraying her as surely as her bones had.

Her last fragile hope crumbled with the dissolving cream. She had known all along it was foolish but still, she had hoped. And now even that small illusion had been stripped away, leaving her alone with the relentless truth of her body.

The kitchen table sat in the half-light, cluttered with yesterday's mug and a scattering of crumbs. At its center lay a pristine white note card, impossibly clean against the mess:

We hope you are enjoying your experience with THE SUBSTANCE. Your two-week refill kit has been delivered to your deposit box.

The words gleamed with sterile cheer, as though written by a machine that had never known longing or despair. Elisabeth barely glanced at it as she moved through the doorway, her shoulders hunched, the vacuum cleaner droning behind her. The sound grew louder, filling the space like a swarm of wasps. Back and forth she pushed it across the carpet, left, right, left again as her body was tethered to the machine as rigidly as one of those toy football players locked on a single axis.

The monotony numbed her thoughts, which was the point. If she could keep the hum steady, if she could pretend the world was nothing but crumbs and dust, then she might not have to feel the hollow place growing in her chest.

But something flickered in the corner of her eye.

Elisabeth slowed, hand tightening on the vacuum handle. The TV glowed across the room. She reached out and snapped the machine off. For a moment there was silence. Then—

"DON'T YOU KNOW, PUMP IT UP!"

The sudden throb of music jolted her. On the screen, a woman swayed her hips with dizzying confidence. Elisabeth's heart stuttered.

Sue.

Sue, with her dazzling smile and flawless skin, her movements liquid and commanding. A woman who now occupied the stage that had once been Elisabeth's.

Elisabeth sank into the armchair, fingers curling over the fabric for balance. Her bathrobe fell open at the knee, exposing the pale, fragile line of her leg. On-screen, Sue laughed, tossed her hair, raised her arms as though she could command the entire world to follow her rhythm.

Elisabeth muted the sound but couldn't look away. Without music, Sue's body still pulsed—hips circling, thighs tightening, stomach rippling in time to a phantom beat that seemed to echo in Elisabeth's bones.

Thirty repetitions. Maybe more. Each one a reminder.

The show ended with Sue's dazzling close-up. "In the meantime... take care of yourself!" she cooed, and blew a kiss that felt aimed directly at Elisabeth.

A suspended moment. As if they were staring at one another through the glass, two women locked in a cruel mirror.

Then she switched the TV off. Her reflection caught in the blank screen: gnarled fingers gripping the remote, bathrobe bunched around her waist, eyes hollowed by sleeplessness.

But beyond the reflection, framed by the window behind the set, another face waited. A billboard. Sue again, smiling with all her perfect teeth.

PUMP IT UP.

The words pressed in on her from both sides like she was being suffocated..

BZZZZ.

The buzzer at the front door cut through her thoughts like a blade. Elisabeth flinched.

Who the hell is that?