Chloe grabbed the mirror. She brought it up to her face. She smiled, expecting perfection. Expecting youth.
She blinked.
Her smile faltered.
She touched her cheek. She touched her nose.
Then, a sound rose from her throat—a guttural, animalistic noise that wasn’t quite a scream. It was the sound of a mind snapping.
Crash.
The mirror shattered on the floor.
“What did you do?” she shrieked, clawing at her face. “What is this? I look… I look old! I look… tired!”
She spun around to face me. Her eyes—my eyes—were wide with horror.
“You ruined me!” she screamed. “Who are you? I’ll sue you! I’ll kill you!”
I stood still. I reached up to my face.
Slowly, deliberately, I pulled down my surgical mask. I pulled off my cap, letting my hair fall loose—the same hair color she had dyed hers to match.
The face staring down at her was the exact same face she had just seen in the shattered glass. The same nose. The same chin. The same eyes.
“You look like the woman he is married to,” I smiled.
Chloe gasped, backing away until she hit the wall. “No… no…”
The door handle turned.
“Babe? Are you ready?”
Richard walked in. He was holding a massive bouquet of red roses. He was smiling, eager to see his purchase.
He stopped dead.
He looked at me, standing in my scrubs.
Then he looked at the woman on the bed.
He dropped the flowers.
He was trapped in a room with two versions of the wife he had betrayed. One was holding a scalpel. The other was screaming with his wife’s voice.
“Richard!” Chloe cried, reaching for him. “Help me! She’s crazy!”
Richard stumbled back, slamming into the doorframe. He looked like a man having a stroke. His eyes darted frantically between us.
“Don’t touch me!” he yelled as Chloe grabbed his arm.
He recoiled from her. The woman he had lusted after, the escape from his “boring” life, was now a mirror image of his obligation. The sexual attraction was instantly executed by the uncanny valley of horror.
“Why… why does she look like you?” Richard whispered, looking at me. “Evelyn?”
“She wanted to be the only thing you saw, Richard,” I said calmly. I walked over to my purse and picked it up. “She wanted to replace me. I just… facilitated the transition.”
“Fix it!” Richard screamed at me. “Change her back!”
“I can’t,” I said. “Bone was removed. Cartilage was grafted. This is permanent. To reverse it would take years of painful reconstruction, and the scar tissue… well, it would be messy.”
Chloe sank to the floor, sobbing into her hands. “You said you’d make me beautiful!”
“I made you me,” I corrected. “According to my husband, I’m a hag. But you seemed to want his life, so now you have his wife’s face.”
I pulled a file from my bag.
“Here are the consent forms,” I said, tossing them onto the bed. “Signed by Chloe. ‘Total facial reconstruction at the surgeon’s discretion to achieve a specific aesthetic likeness.’ And here is the payment record. Your corporate card, Richard.”
I walked to the door.
“By the way, Richard, I filed for divorce this morning. Incompatibility. Cruelty. Adultery.”
I paused, my hand on the knob.
“You can have the house. And you can have her. I imagine it will be very comforting for you to wake up next to my face every morning, reminding you of exactly what you threw away. Every time you kiss her, you’ll kiss me. Every time you look at her, you’ll see your own betrayal staring back.”
Richard slid down the wall, his head in his hands. He couldn’t even look at her.
Chloe was clawing at her cheeks, leaving red welts, but the skin held firm. My masterpiece was durable.
I walked out of the clinic and into the bright California sun.
The air tasted sweet.
I got into my convertible and drove. I drove to a salon in West Hollywood.
“Cut it all off,” I told the stylist. “And bleach it. Platinum.”
Two hours later, I looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me was a stranger. Her hair was a shock of white-blonde, cut into a sharp pixie. Her makeup was bold—red lips, winged liner.
I stopped wearing the severe suits Richard liked. I bought leather jackets. I bought silk dresses in colors that screamed.
Six months later.
I sat at a café in Paris, watching the rain streak the windows. I sipped an espresso, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.
I had heard rumors.
Chloe had tried to sue, but no lawyer would take the case. The consent forms were ironclad, and the “botched” surgery was technically a success—she looked exactly like the reference photo. She spent her days wearing heavy veils and large sunglasses, hiding from mirrors.
Richard was drinking alone in bars in LA, telling anyone who would listen about the curse of the two wives. He couldn’t date. He couldn’t sleep. He was haunted by a living ghost.
A handsome man approached my table. He had kind eyes and a hesitant smile.
“Excuse me,” he said in accented English. “I just wanted to say… I love your look. It’s very… unique.”
I smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that reached my eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s a limited edition. The original.”
I picked up my spoon to stir my sugar. For a split second, I caught my reflection in the curved metal.
I saw the ghost of the “old” Evelyn staring back—the tired woman in the garden, the woman who tried so hard to be perfect for a man who wanted a doll.
I winked at her.
“Goodbye, old friend,” I whispered. “You’re someone else’s problem now.”
If you want more stories like this, or if you’d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I’d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don’t be shy about commenting or sharing.
