How Much More?

How Much More?
by Sophie Geddie

Chapter 1

“What is it that you want?” The lilt of that familiar voice hums in my ears, easing me awake. My eyes open, seeking His face, but I am met by the inky blackness of my bedroom. Sitting up, I peer around in the dark but am unable to make out even the shape of my dresser across the room, or the window in the corner. Were there not walls enclosing me before I drifted to sleep? My room is now a great void of black.

    Am I even in my room? Where am I? What’s going on? Where is He?

    Fear tugs at my stomach as my eyes rapidly dart across my surroundings, trying to spot anything, anything, familiar to me, but I can’t.

    On a shaky breath, I whisper into the oblivion, “Hello?”

    “What is it that you want, daughter?” His voice echos through the chasm I sit in. Beneath me, I feel the softness of my sheets and the blankets still cover me, offering warmth from the cold of this empty space. My mind reels with fear and unease. 

    “I-I’m sorry?” I ask, perplexed by His question. Surely, I must be mishearing Him. Surely, in a situation as baffling as this one, He would not be asking that sort of question.

    “Breya, what is it that you want?” I hear Him inhale a heavy breath, and exhale slowly. A breeze gently bristles over me, swirling my hair, and settling me into this moment. He’s here – I know it. I am safe.

    “What could you possibly mean?” I beg. “Help me to see what it is that you’re asking.”

    “I come to you tonight with an abundance of love in my heart for you. I am able, so ask of me. What do you want, my daughter? What is it that your heart desires? What do you long to have? Ask of me and it will be yours.” His voice is sweet like honey, pleasing to my ears.

    In the darkness, I feel the mattress beside me sink under His weight. He sits beside me, taking my hand in His. 

    “I wish to give you what you want. Please, tell me your hidden hopes, that I may gratify them.” With His thumb gently caressing the back of my hand, my whirling thoughts still, centering on His question.

    What do I want?  Truthfully, I do not think I know. What do I want?

    My mind immediately races through every instinctual answer – more money… fame… comfort… love… 

    I begin to picture it – my life if I were to ask for endless riches…

    Before me, in the inky void, a small, glittering light flickers. My eyes widen with intrigue as the speck grows and grows, swallowing the darkness little by little until it has completely consumed the empty chasm. 

    As I squint, adjusting to the brilliance of my new surroundings, I find myself standing in the most extravagant foyer I have ever seen. My eyes are drawn to a chandelier of crystals that illuminates the grand room, adorning it in beautiful rays of gentle light that reflects softly off the pure marble floors. Decadent pieces of art are spread throughout the room, gracing the walls with such magnificent beauty, I find myself at a total loss of words. At the center of the room rests a statue, regal and majestic, of a broad man reaching his hand to the heavens, an expression of utter devastation etched into the stone of his face, his ankle bound by chains. On either side of him are two resplendent staircases leading to a second floor. Just past the statue of the forlorn man, a large arched entryway is carved into the wall, beckoning me further into the splendor of the mansion.

    My feet carry me forward as my heart pounds in my ears. What is this place? Whose house am I in? Does someone really live here? I feel my jaw hang loose as I enter into a room that could be given the title “living room,” but such a label hardly does this grandeur justice. Floor to ceiling windows allow the sun to cast the room in the shimmering light of dusk, adding a golden hue to the glorious space. My eyes see but can barely register everything they are taking in – the enormous TV hanging on the wall, the plush, imposing sofas around a sumptuous, intricately designed rug, the two crystal chandeliers gracing the soaring ceilings, the numerous delicate porcelain vases holding extravagant bouquets of breathtaking floral arrangements.

    My feet move me further and further through the house as I hungrily take in all the fantastical sights, from the regal grand piano in the next room to the utterly staggering size of the master bedrooms. 

    With too many bedrooms, bathrooms, studies, media rooms, libraries, and hallways to count, by the time I make it back to the foyer, I’m bewildered. 

    How could someone be so lucky as to live here? It’s like living in a castle! To reside here daily would make one feel like royalty – like the most extravagant, majestic human to exist. 

    The smallest sliver of jealousy begins to bite at my chest as my gaze lingers on the beautifully crafted wooden tables lining the entryway to the house. 

    As a child, I would watch with a longing ache in my heart as my friends and classmates would live the most amazing lives, constantly lavished with extravagance. While I grew up watching my possessions become outdated and forgotten, children around me would race to school in their brand new, shiny cars, dressed in flashy, beautiful clothes, looking effortlessly luxurious and ornately flawless. They would flash sparkling credit cards as though the monetary value was limitless, bound only by one’s imagination and reckless spending capabilities, and lived the lives I constantly ached for. Night after night, I would dream of the day that I would experience wealth. What would it be like to drive in that fancy car? Or wear those designer clothes? How would it feel to live in their world, rather than lurking as a nosy spectator on the outskirts of their grandeur? 

    My eye catches on the table closest to the front door. There, a large silver platter rests,  holding a stack of envelopes and promotional catalogues. Mail. My curiosity getting the better of me, I make my way to the table and, keeping my hands at my sides (though they wish to rummage and snoop), peek at the name on the top envelope.

    Breya Fynn.

 

Chapter 2

    I gasp, my hand rushing to cover my mouth. Impossible…

    Utterly bewildered, I slowly reach for the stack of mail. Holding my breath, I flip to the next envelope and find to whom it is addressed.

    Breya Fynn.

    Hands shaking, I flip.

    Breya Fynn.

    Flip.

    Breya Fynn.

    Breya Fynn.

    Breya Fynn.

    Ms. Breya Fynn.

    Breya Fynn.

    Fynn, Breya.

    Breya Fynn.

    My mind spins as all the air seems to be sucked out of the room entirely. I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I cannot make sense of this. 

    The envelopes fall out of my hands, fluttering to the marble floor beneath me. My gaze follows them to the ground, and it is then that I see the shoes I am wearing – Jimmy Choo pumps. I would know these heels anywhere. I have longed for a pair for years but have never found a justifiable reason to spend such an extravagant amount of my very limited income on shoes. And yet, they are on my feet, their black velvet utterly striking against my skin. 

    I seek out the mirror I passed as I meandered so enamoured through the house. At the sight of my reflection, my eyes go wide.

    I’m… me, but not. 

    My reflection offers me a callous grimace and glares down her nose at me. But… that’s not my nose. And those aren’t my cheeks, either. My cheekbones aren’t that prominent and my lips are definitely not that plump. My eyes are not that dull and hollowed. The excessive jewelry that dangle from my neck and ears have never been my taste, but the way they shimmer makes them look exceptionally expensive and luxurious. The clothes I wear offer the same indulgent, costly appearance, but are not what I would have ever personally chosen to wear. 

    I look around. Who am I? Who is this person glaring back at me in the mirror? This entire house is mine? Why am I here alone?

    I find my reflection again as she sneers at me.

    “Who do you think you’re looking at?” She snaps, a bite in her voice that I have never heard in my own before. I stumble back a step, feeling completely naked under her scrutinizing gaze. “You clearly don’t belong here,” she crosses her arms over her artificial chest.

    “W-Who are you?” I manage through the fear gripping my throat. She laughs a me, a sharp, viscous sound.

    “I’m you,” she sneers, her lips twisting in disgust.

    “You’re not me,” I breathe, my shaky words barely audible in my own ears. This is impossible, I think.

    “Are you stupid? Yes, I’m you. We’re the same person.” A smug smirk plays at her stiff lips. “I’m just… better,” she says with a shrug.

    “What makes you better?” I ask in a weak voice. She scoffs.

    “Do you not see where you’re standing right now? Look around! This is everything you could ever want, and it’s all ours.” Her expression is full of disdain, as if a conversation with me is completely beneath her. “They all said we’d never make it, but look where we are now,” her smile is almost villainous as she scans her possessions.

    “Does anyone else live here?” I ask, my eyes leaving her for but a moment in search of any trace of life apart from ours.

    “Well – ” she blinks once, twice. “No… But, you don’t need anyone else when you have all of this,” she says, spreading her arms to gesture at the grandeur of our house. I study her for a moment, peering into her eyes. There is an emptiness there that has never existed in mine before. My once-bright eyes have gone dull – lifeless.

    “So, you’re alone here?” I ask my reflection. She recoils a bit, her mask slipping ever so slightly before she plasters the ugly sneer back on her face and leers at me.

    “Who do you think you are? Are you really judging me right now? You? You wanted this! You asked for it!” She shouts, her voice echoing off the walls surrounding us and booming in my ears. Her fists curl at her sides, her breaths becoming shallow and ragged with rage. I shrivel into myself wanting nothing more than to escape this woman in the mirror. She is not me.

    “But… are you happy?” I ask slowly, timidly. I curse my voice for being so weak, for cowering beneath her aggression.

    Pure, unadulterated fury burns in her eyes. “What kind of question is that?” She grits through clenched teeth.

    “Do you ever see Him?” My voice is just above a whisper, but she hears me. Her face slackens as she gapes at me. It seems as if this is the first time she has been reminded of Him in a long while. She continues to stare at me, her brows furrowing, creating a crease in the firm skin of her face. She almost looks… sad. 

    We stand like that, she and I, staring at each other in silence for what feels like forever. She is so lost in thought – I can almost see the memories and recollection flashing behind her eyes, moments when she held desperately to His hand at all times. When was it that she decided to let go? 

    “Do you miss Him?” The question leaves my lips before I can reconsider, my voice cautious. It tugs at her, pulling her from the trance she had sunk into, the reminiscent haze that seemed to crack the mask she wears so well.

    Her breath catches. For a moment, I see something – something raw and fragile flickering behind her eyes.

    “He wouldn’t want to see me…” The words barely make it to my ears, her voice breaking like brittle glass.

    I see it then – the war inside her. The way she blinks too quickly, as if trying to shove the painful memories back into the depths where they belong. A tear threatens to spill, but she forces it back.

    “You know that isn’t true,” I gently reply, my gaze never leaving her face. 

    In one small motion, she shakes her head. It was such a small movement, nearly imperceptible, I wonder if I imagined it. A second later, however, she shakes her head harder, more decidedly. “No.” It’s just a whisper at first, but the word mutates—growing teeth, sharpening into something wild and untamed. “No.” The second time, her voice is stronger, colder. The woman before me is slipping away, swallowed by something darker.
    Her eyes then snap to mine, any trace of vulnerability that had just surfaced vanishing in a blink. Rage slams into her features like a mask slipping back into place. Her jaw locks, fists curling at her sides.

    “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” the words are venom, spat between clenched teeth.

    I recoil at the harshness of her tone – at the step she takes toward me. 

    “How dare you,” her voice drops to something low, reckless and dangerous. Nostrils flaring, her shoulders heave with each breath. “I am fine.” The word is spat at me. “This is what I wanted. This is what I chose. It’s exactly what I asked for.” Her voice rises with each syllable, the fury in her trembling body now too frenzied to contain. “I have more money than I could ever dream of spending in this lifetime – ” She spreads her arms wide, the movement almost manic. “What else could I possibly need?” 

    The silence that follows is thick, unbreathing.

    I meet her burning gaze. “Him.” 

    Her body stiffens. Then – 

    She lunges.

     The glass of the mirror that enclosed her shatters around me, sending a thousand shards slicing through the air. I barely manage to spin away before she’s upon me.

    I run.

    I run and I run.

    Heavy footsteps thunder behind me, fast and relentless.

    “Help!” I scream, my voice ripping through each and every empty corridor. Desperately, I look for Him. “Where are you?” My feet pound against the marble floor, pummeling down a staircase I don’t remember climbing.

    My breath is ragged, my vision blurred, my body electrified with terror.

    I run.

    Faster.

    I can hear her breathing – heavy, furious – just behind me.

     “HELP!” I call out to Him again, my voice breaking. “Please, help me!”

    The room collapses and goes black, the white walls, stone statues, and crystal chandeliers melting into the darkness. I am back in the obscure chasm of night, His presence lingering beside me, my hand still in His.

 

 

Chapter 3

    My heart pounds in my ears as I heave deep breaths into my aching lungs. I feel His shoulder next to me, and sink into Him, my mind trying to process the fact that I am back in His safety—the events that just made me fear for my life did not actually happen.

    “What is it that you want?” His voice, soft and disarming, repeats the question from earlier. 

    My desire for riches has just died a gruesome death. The thought of becoming that monster has me nauseated and clutching His hand with white knuckles. Wealth is completely meaningless if that is my future – in that cold, empty house alone, my abhorrent reflection my only companion. In my mind, I see the way her eyes, thoroughly void of life, simmered with rage when I asked about Him. 

    She never sees Him… That much was devastatingly clear from the utter lack of tenderness in her gaze. And, not only has she meticulously reshaped her body to fit the twisted, unnatural archetype of “beauty” that has taken root in her mind, but she has also damned her heart to a hollow existence—one where anything truly good and pure will remain a distant stranger.

    Without Him, she will never know hope.

    Love, peace, joy, faith… When did she loosen her grip on His hand? When did she forsake these precious gifts and let them slip away?

    Immediately, I am grief stricken by this thought. I could not possibly fathom removing my hand from His gentle palm. My heart is entirely distraught imagining life without Him. All the riches in the world are worth less than nothing if I cannot feel His thumb grazing my hand, steadying me, soothing me, slowing the frantic rhythm of my heart. Unimaginable wealth becomes a death sentence if He is not near—if He does not linger beside me in the day and whisper gentle secrets over my dreams at night. Without Him, there is no brighter, better reality—only a hollow existence, dull and void of hope.

    If wealth is not what I want, what is it that I do want?

    I sift through all the possibilities, turning them over in my head. Wishing for abundant riches would be foolish – disastrous, even… But, if I am truly honest with myself, something I long for desperately is to be seen. Lately, it feels as though I am but a shadow in the lives of others, a supporting character in others’ stories rather than the emboldened heroine of my own. I move through the world unheard, unnoticed, while those around me take center stage, their voices rising above mine as if I were never meant to be more than a whisper. Barely seen. Hardly heard.

    When will someone truly see me? When will my talents, my dreams—the essence of all that I am—be acknowledged as worthy of attention? Of appreciation?

    Perhaps the day I am chosen, the day I am valued not for convenience but for the uniquely irreplaceable parts of myself, will be the day I truly understand happiness…

    I sigh, a wave of longing stirring within me, twisting itself into an ache I cannot endure. What would it be like, I wonder, to step out of the shadows and into the light? To exist in a manner that no one could ignore?

    An abrupt flash of light suddenly blinds me before disappearing into the darkness again. I lurch forward in my bed, eyes wide and clutching His hand tighter.

    “What was that?” I squeal.

    Another flash erupts through the shadows, stinging my eyes with its beaming intensity.

    Flash. This light came from my left.

    Flash. This one, from my right.

    Flash, flash, flash, flash. 

    A jumbled murmur of what sounds like multiple voices suddenly resounds through the void. 

    Flash. 

    I squint my eyes against the onslaught of blinding flashes, straining my ears to try to make out the low rumble of noise. 

    The flashes become incessant, repeatedly burning my eyes and coming from every direction as the soft murmur grows louder and louder. Amidst the blinding pulses of light and the now deafening volume of voices, my senses are completely overwhelmed.

    “Breya! Right here!” A muffled voice calls from my right. Flash.

    “Breya! Over here!” A much closer voice shouts from my left. Another flash. Brilliant streaks of light cut through the void, iridescence devouring the darkness as a new scene takes shape before my eyes.

    “Breya, what can you tell us about the rumors surrounding you and Collins?” Flash. Flash. Flash.
    “Breya! Look here!” Flash. Flash.

    “Breya! Who are you wearing tonight?”

    “Breya! Smile for StarScope News!”

    “Over here, Breya!”

    Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.

    Explosions of white-hot light detonate around me, blinding, relentless. A cacophony of voices—sharp, urgent, demanding—cuts through the air. 

    My name? Why are they shouting my name? 

    I stumble back, hands flying to my face in a desperate attempt to shield my searing eyes, but the assault continues—burst after burst, each flash more violent than the last.
    Blinking hard, I lower my gaze, my vision swimming with ghosts of their lights. Beneath me, a spread of deep crimson stretches endlessly, thousands—millions—of fibers woven so tightly together they feel almost unreal beneath my feet. My fingers part just enough for me to glimpse beyond the safety of my palm, and there they are—rows of red velvet ropes forming a barrier between me and the mass of elegantly dressed figures beyond. Slacks pressed to perfection. Gowns that flow like liquid. The scent of expensive perfume clings to the air.
    The flashes keep coming. The voices don’t stop.
    I spin away, my pulse hammering against my ribs, desperate for escape—desperate for sense. But the moment I turn, I realize hoping for sense was a fool’s mission, for my apparent insanity has certainly twisted my understanding of reality.
    Golden Mic Awards.
    The words loom in massive, golden letters against a sleek black wall, gleaming under the harsh lights.

    I freeze. The breath in my lungs vanishes. My body goes rigid, my mind sluggish, unwilling to comprehend what my eyes are telling me.

    I am standing on the red carpet.

    I am standing on the red carpet at the Golden Mic Awards.

 

Chapter 4

    The world crashes in around me. The flashes, the voices chanting my name, the velvet ropes. The sheer impossibility of it all.

    Because this—this can’t be real.

    And yet, somehow, it is.

    My body jerks back to the crowd of photographers, an expression of mystification most assuredly twisting my features in a very non-photogenic way. 

    How? How?

    My heart slams against my ribs, spasming incessantly as I search for an answer, for some sort of cosmic loophole or portal, for anything that explains the scene before me – but my mind can only continue its spiral into crippling confusion. 

    A dream? No… No dream of mine has ever before felt this vivid, this loud – this aggressively realistic. I can feel the sting of the lights in my eyes, the intense tremor in my hands running up my arms to my rapidly beating heart, pulsing in my ears like a caged beast.

    I don’t belong here… I can’t belong here. I’ve never recorded an album. I have never stepped foot inside a studio. I have never even sung beyond the safety of my own shower! Any second now, security will rush in, take me by the arm, and drag me away from this life that isn’t even mine.

    And yet, here I remain firmly rooted in place, being blinded by flashing cameras, my name ricocheting off every surface as if I were someone worth knowing.

    Despite the acute unsettlement poisoning my veins and churning the contents of my stomach, a twisted thrill darts through me. Just listen to them. Their voices rise in a fevered chorus, chanting my name as if it is the only word they know, their shouts colliding in a chaotic frenzy, each one desperate to be the loudest. And their faces—wide-eyed, worshipful, breathless with devotion—gaze at me as if I am something holy, something worth breaking themselves over. 

    Wait… 

    Doubt snakes up my spine. 

    Who are they looking at?

    A slow, creeping sense of dread curls like a viper around my ribs as I squint against the relentless flashing of cameras.  The lenses, the hungry, unblinking eyes of the press, are not pointed at me.

    No. They are locked on something just beyond me.

    A few yards down the carpet, near the entrance of the LA Grande Theater, something else commands the spotlight.

    I follow their line of focus, and the moment my gaze lands on her, my stomach turns upside down, its unsettled contents lurching upward, bile scorching the back of my tongue. My eyes go wide at the positively grotesque sight in front of me.

    What am I looking at?

    A woman. Or, at least, something that used to be one.

    She stands there, basking in the undivided attention of her adoring worshippers, her body draped in what was once a gown of ethereal elegance – a shimmering light blue masterpiece. Now, it clings to her like a burial shroud, drenched in gore. Blood saturates the fabric, soaking it dark, heavier in certain places where chunks of raw flesh cling to the silk like something chewed and spat back out. Her shoulders, her arms – everything is ravaged. Torn open. Violated with no mercy, no restraint.

    The wounds haven’t been tended to at all.

    They gape open, cavernous pits, festering with raw tissue and something dark – something rotting.

    It looks like an animal – no, something much, much worse – has burrowed into her, carving out pieces, leaving jagged ruins in its wake. Her skin is a grotesque patchwork of bruises, slashes, and deep, gaping holes.

    My eyes take in her face – or, at least, what’s left of it. Chunks of flesh dangle in loose, peeling strips from her cheekbones and forehead. The raw, glistening muscle beneath shines wet under the flashing lights. A portion of her jawbone is exposed, stark white against the obliterated ruin of her face. One eye is nearly swollen shut, the other bulging unnaturally wide, red and locked in an unblinking stare.

    And yet – she smiles. A horrible, stomach-churning grin, bloodied teeth bared through shredded lips.

    She poses. Tilts her head. Flings her stringy, grotesque tangle of hair behind her shoulder. Basks in the camera flashes as if this is exactly where she belongs.

    “Breya! You look so beautiful!”

    “Breya, over here!”

     Flash. Flash. Flash.

    The world has warped into some alternate reality. The sound of my name being screamed by countless adoring voices twists into something sickly – hollow. Terror clutches my lungs in a vice.

    Because the photographers aren’t horrified.

    The reporters aren’t recoiling in disgust.

    No one is screaming. Nobody calls 911. No one asks if she needs help.

    They see her. They worship her. Their gazes remain transfixed upon her.

    And most unnerving of all – they continue to chant my name.

 

Chapter 5

    My mind spins at the horrific scene playing out before me. Sheer, unadulterated panic squeezes me in its frantic embrace, crushing the air from my lungs. I felt my hands clutch at my chest trying to contain the fear pumping through my veins–its source, my trembling heart. 

    I stumble backwards, heaving for breath, my brain a foggy mess of terror. Something behind me catches my heel throwing me off balance, sending me plunging to the ground. A grunt of pain escapes my lips when my tailbone slams into the floor. Through the all-consuming fear rattling my insides, I feel slight embarrassment tint my cheeks a deep crimson. I glance around at the photographers, reporters, and approaching celebrities walking the red carpet. 

    Not a single person is looking at me. 

    Their gazes remain captivated by the monster further down the walkway.

    Still, I mean, at least someone should have seen me! 

    Suddenly, something hard and painfully heavy lands on my fingers, thoroughly squishing them into the carpet. My eyes fly to the source of the searing pain only to see a man’s black, shiny dress shoe press its wearer’s entire body weight onto my fingers.

    “Ow!” I shout at him, yanking my hand away from his foot. Expecting a heartfelt apology for his attempt at breaking my hand, I look up to face the luxurious shoe’s owner. 

    The most stunning man I have ever borne witness to stood over me, his attention nowhere near me. He smiled tantalizingly at the cameras, flashing perfect teeth, a playful gleam of flirtation in his deep brown eyes. Fitted in a black suit, dark hair styled in intricate waves, a silver chain adorning his neck, every fiber of this man’s being oozed confidence. He belonged here. Events like this were home to someone like him.

    Still, despite his glamour and obvious fame, he could at least acknowledge the fact that he crushed my fingers beneath his pristine shoe!

    “Um, excuse me?” Irritation laced my curt words.

    He turned his body away from me, placing his hand in his pocket, offering the cameras a different angle.

    The audacity… “Helloooo?” I wave a hand in front of his face. Paying not a single thought to the fact that I was causing a scene, I allowed my indignation to fuel my actions. “You don’t have to be rude!” I snip.

    His eyes remain glued to the people standing behind the velvet ropes as if he could not even hear me.

    Suddenly, his body turned and he stepped past me, his broad shoulder bumping against me. I stumble backward, standing no chance against his large frame. I scoff at his brazen disrespect.

    “Who do you think you are?” I demand, grabbing onto his shoulder, yanking him back towards me with as much force as I could muster. 

    He continued forward, utterly unfazed. It was as though I hadn’t even touched him. My hand had not moved him even an inch. 

    Confusion furrows my brow. Turning away from him, I spot a woman in the most dazzling dress sauntering toward me.

    “Can you believe that guy?” I ask her, scoffing in disbelief.

    Paying me no mind, she saunters past me.

    The sting of rejection chokes me. Not two minutes ago, they were all chanting my name in harmonious chorus, and now this? 

    A creeping sense of dread nips at the back of my mind. Something isn’t right…

    I spin in a slow circle, my pulse hammering against my ribs. No one is looking at me. No one even reacts to me.

    I lurch forward, reaching for another bystander—some woman shimmering in an emerald gown. My fingers graze the silk fabric of her sleeve, desperate for acknowledgment. But she doesn’t so much as flinch.

    My stomach plummets.

    I reach again, this time pushing against her arm. Completely unaffected, she continues down the carpet.

    “What the…” My voice is barely a whisper.

I spin toward the cameras, the flashing lights, the reporters. There has to be something, some proof that I exist here, standing on this godforsaken carpet.
    I lunge toward the camera lenses—throwing my hands into the blinding glow, desperate to see my own reflection in the polished glass.

    Nothing.

    I am not there.

    My chest caves in on itself. I whip around, breathless, my thoughts spiraling—

    Suddenly, in my periphery, a shift catches my attention. The grotesque woman they call by my name still stands beneath the harsh lights, grinning as her mangled face leaks blood onto the carpet beneath her, leaving a trail of soiled scarlet as she turns as steps off the walkway. 

    Immediately, she is tended to by makeup artists, dabbing at the mutilated flesh of her face, and hair stylists brushing at the tangled mess of bloodied hair sticking to the crimson wetness of her skin.

    A sickening lurch twists my stomach as I watch the paradox unfold.

    The makeup artists don’t hesitate. Their brushes swipe through the slick red of her face, as if it’s just another layer of foundation. The hair stylists do not recoil as their fingers comb through the sticky strands of blood-matted hair, tugging and shaping it as if they aren’t touching rotting flesh of a walking corpse. 

    I want to scream at them, to tear their hands away, to shake them until they see what I see—but they don’t.

    The flashes don’t stop. The cameras devour the scene, eating up every grotesque detail, every sickening smear of red against the once-beautiful gown. Reporters bark their praises, their voices eager, insatiable, oblivious.

    A makeup artist—a young woman dressed in all black, her presence meant to be invisible—steps forward, a small, rectangular mirror in her hand. She holds it up, allowing the thing to admire herself before stepping inside the theater, where even more cameras will feast upon her image.

    I brace myself, expecting to see her ruined face – her slashed and bloodied flesh reflected back at her. 

    But the moment the glass catches her image, I stop breathing.

    My body locks.

    My pulse flatlines.

    Staring back at her from the mirror is me.

    Not the monster. Me. 

    My face, my eyes, my skin – whole, unblemished, unscathed.

    My golden hair like a pristine halo atop my head, my makeup done to glamorous perfection, my light blue eyes shining brightly at the mutilated monstrosity from within the mirror.

    I reel back as if struck across the face.

    “No,” I breathe, tremors aggressively pulsing through my body. “No, no, no, no.” I blink hard. 

    This isn’t real… My eyes closed, I plead with reality to shift – to change from the horrific nightmare I am currently trapped in.

    It is all for naught. After a deep, steadying breath, I open my eyes again. A sob escapes my lips as the stark realization crashes into me, sharp and merciless—this is real.

    The mirror does not lie. It does not shift. It does not change.

    It is still me – me – staring back from the mirror.

 

Chapter 6

    The creature – me? – rakes her fingers through blood-matted strands of hair. I stand frozen, watching as my reflection mimics every movement fluidly, immediately.

    Not a single drop of blood mars my image. Not a single gaping wound. 

    It’s me. It has always been me.

    Something fractures inside my mind. A jagged crack, rippling through my sanity, threatening to split it apart.

The monster offers her reflection a horrifying smile, shifting foot to foot as she inspects herself.

    And in the mirror, I smile back.

    My legs wobble, the contents of my stomach dangerously close to erupting from their depths. Nausea sweeps over me, my ears ringing, my mind going foggy. This can’t be real…

    I gag. I heave. I choke and cough, doubled over, as my vomit coats the red carpet beneath me.

    My head spins as I fight for breath.

    I can’t do this.

    “Get me out of here!” I cry in anguish. Surely, He is listening. “I don’t want to be here anymore! Please!” My voice breaks, another wave of nausea threatening to overtake me.

    “Look,” His voice is smooth in my ears.

    “No, please, get me out of here, PLEASE.” I beg, wearily collapsing to my knees. My eyes search for Him amidst the sea of people, but cannot find Him.

    “Look,” He replies.

    As if of their own accord, my eyes drift back to the monster. She dabs delicately at the raw, exposed muscle of her cheek, as if tending to nothing more than a minor smudge. My own reflection stares back from the mirror, poised and unmarked, effortlessly flawless as it adjusts the perfect makeup enhancing my unbroken features.

    My stomach churns uneasily yet again.

    “Look,” He repeats softly, His voice almost sad.

Frustration burns through me, scorching away reason. “I am looking!” My voice breaks into a sob, torn between fury and devastation. My breath shudders as my face crumples, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. “How could that be me?” I cry into the air. “This doesn’t make sense! This can’t be real!”

    “Look again.”

    Against my will, my eyes drag back to the grotesque figure at the end of the red carpet. But this time…

    This time, I see.

    Hulking, nightmarish figures cling to her like bloated parasites, their elongated limbs wrapped around her ravaged body. Their blackened skin and patchy fur, slick and matted with her blood, shifts like liquid shadow, writhing with unnatural movement. Rib-like protrusions jut from their backs, each one lined with something that should be wings but are nothing more than rotting, membranous shreds. Their mouths—if you can call them that—are jagged, gaping wounds stretching too wide, lined with needle-thin teeth that drip with viscous, dark saliva. And their eyes… 

    Sickly yellow, serpentine, darting in every direction.

    No one can see them. 

    No one but me.

    Their hooked claws sink deep into her flesh, disappearing past the shredded skin as though they are fusing with her very being. They dig into her arms, her legs, her shoulders, each movement grotesquely deliberate as they pull and twist her like a broken marionette. Her feet stumble forward as one demon shoves a clawed hand against her spine, forcing her toward the grand entrance of the theater. Another grips her wrist, jerking her arm upward into an elegant wave.

    The cameras explode in a frenzy.

    Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.

    The light catches the gleam of exposed bone on her cheek where flesh should be. It glistens on the gaping wounds lining her arms like grotesque jewelry. And yet… in the lenses of their cameras, she is whole. Perfect. Radiant.

    A demon crouched by her face slithers a hand forward, its claws—long, black, and treacherously hooked—pressing into the corners of her lips. 

    “Smile for them, filthy whore.” It spits at her, its voice a rasp of splintered glass, a guttural snarl that slices through the air like the stench of something long dead.

    With cruel precision, it drags her mouth into a wide, unnatural smile, stretching her split lips far beyond what is humanly possible.

    Her head trembles. Her body shudders. It is not a smile. It is a wound being forcibly reopened.

    And the cameras eat it up.

    Flash. Flash. Flash.

    The world cheers for her brilliance – for her exquisite beauty and unmatched elegance.

    I choke in horror.

    And then, just before the demons pull her onward, a single tear breaks free. It rolls down her mangled cheek, slipping from her chin and landing in a single, scarlet drop on the ruined fabric of her gown.

    A tear no one will ever see.

    Because to them, she isn’t suffering. She is shining.

    She is beautiful.