Chapter 21: Vanity's Remains

The bedroom looked like a battlefield. Boxes lay open and discarded, spilling their contents in disorganized heaps across the floor—silk dresses crumpled beside worn shoes, sequined scarves draped carelessly over half-packed handbags. Elisabeth stepped carefully among the chaos, her bare feet brushing against the cool fabric as if wading through the remnants of another life.

She drew the zipper of her gown slowly, the sound sharp in the quiet. The line of metal teeth climbed over the pink scar that bisected her back, swallowing it inch by inch until the skin looked unbroken and perfect. She turned toward the tall mirror. From the front, nothing betrayed her secret. The moiré silk dress clung in the right places, the neckline plunging into a V that framed her chest with deliberate elegance.

Her fingers trembled only slightly as she slid them into long black satin gloves. They smoothed over the crookedness of her problem finger, erasing another flaw. When she raised her hands and pressed them against the glass, the woman staring back seemed… whole. For the first time in years, Elisabeth felt the ghost of admiration rise within her. She looked like someone who deserved to be seen, someone worth the effort of beauty.

In the bathroom, she leaned close to the mirror, lipstick poised like a weapon. A last stroke, then another, until her smile appeared brighter, sharper than she felt inside. She checked the clock; the numbers pushed her chest tighter with every passing minute. Nervousness fluttered at her ribs.

She turned toward the half-open door. Beyond it, Sue's body lay still in the secret room, a grotesque reflection of everything Elisabeth had lost—smooth skin, lips ripe as fruit, cheeks that held their shape as though untouched by time.

Elisabeth's own face sagged in comparison, or so it seemed in the harsh light. She dragged more blush across her cheekbones, too much, then another layer—anything to resist the creeping shadow of age. "Good," she whispered to the mirror, though the word felt like a fragile lie. She forced a smile and shut off the light before it could betray her.

Down the hallway, she gathered her coat, her handbag, the ritual necessities of leaving. Her hand reached for her keys, but her eyes were caught—outside the window, looming against the city sky, Sue's body stretched across a glowing billboard. PUMP IT UP.

Elisabeth froze, breath caught in her throat. The image was larger than life, mercilessly flawless, Sue's breasts high and round, her lips glistening, her hair cascading like liquid light. It was not merely an advertisement. It was an accusation, a reminder, a cruel echo of everything Elisabeth had just painted onto herself.

She stood there in the dim apartment, a woman divided—between the reflection she'd tried to perfect and the impossible ideal plastered on the glass outside.

The bathroom light flickered on, flooding the tiles with a merciless white glow. Elisabeth's reflection blinked back at her, raw and unsparing. She leaned forward, fingertips grazing the porcelain sink, and studied her face as though it belonged to someone else. Every line, every shade felt wrong, as though her skin had betrayed her.

The dress clung too tightly, exposing too much. She tugged the fabric upward to bury her cleavage beneath a fold of cloth, as though the act alone could erase what was already written on her body. The wrap came next, a flimsy shield against eyes she had not yet encountered, but already feared.

The lipstick mocked her — too red, too brash. She scrubbed it away, leaving a faint smear across her cheek, a violent slash of color like a wound she couldn't conceal. Another shade. More blush, heavier, harsher strokes against skin already tender from the repetition. She painted the mask again, one layer after another, as if more pigment might summon worthiness.

Her hair fell loose, then twisted back up. Nothing seemed right. Each adjustment only sharpened her dissatisfaction. The mirror's silence was cruel, reflecting only failure.

She forced a smile at her own image — a grotesque mimicry of confidence — then glanced at the clock. Time had betrayed her too. She inhaled sharply, filling her lungs with courage, though it felt brittle and counterfeit, and shut the light.

Darkness swallowed the room, but her reflection lingered in her mind's eye.

The hallway greeted her with its stale quiet. Elisabeth fixed her gaze forward, refusing to glance toward the living room, as if the shadows there might accuse her. Her hand reached for the front door, fingers hesitating over the cool, round knob. The distorted reflection warped across the metal sphere: a hamster's face, grotesque and shrunken, a parody of her own.

She closed her eyes against it. She could almost feel the billboard pressing at her back — the colossal body plastered across the street outside, skin tight and gleaming, youth embalmed in collagen. The perfection loomed even here, in her own home, like a ghost that would not leave.

Her hand trembled. She gritted her teeth. Don't look. Don't think. Just go.

But when she opened her eyes again, the hamster face was waiting.

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