Transit, 44

Lori sauntered to the full-length mirror in her dimly lit hotel room, her white boots clicking softly against the tiled floor. The rest of her, however, was bare—her smooth, bare skin catching the soft glow of the bedside lamps, which painted her form in warm, golden hues. Each step exaggerated a sway in her hips that she didn’t consciously mean to perform. She reached the mirror and paused, her breathing unsteadily. Something wasn’t right, something nagged at her—an insistent, uncomfortable pull of curiosity mixed with dread.

She turned slowly, craning her neck to get a glimpse of her back, tilting her body to catch the source of the faint, persistent pressure she felt at the base of her spine. A sharp intake of breath broke the silence when she finally saw it: bold, black ink sprawled across her lower back, a tramp stamp.

“What the hell is this?!” she muttered. She traced her long, crimson nails over the intricate design, the raised edges of the tattoo almost mocking her touch. The sensation of her nails against her skin felt foreign, wrong somehow, and the image itself—a curling, feminine mark she would never choose—seemed to cement her growing realization that she was losing control over herself.

Spinning back toward the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her hair. She froze. Her platinum blonde waves cascaded down her back, impossibly thick and shimmering under the dim light. It looked luxurious, styled to perfection, fuller and more vibrant than she had ever seen it. She ran her hands through the silky strands, and her breath hitched at how alien it felt, how flawlessly unnatural. The motion felt instinctive, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that this hair wasn’t truly hers.

Her eyes dropped to her face, and her stomach churned. She leaned in closer, staring in disbelief at her own reflection. Her lips, once delicately full, were now grotesquely overfilled, stuck in a glossy pout that made every expression feel exaggerated and sultry. She pressed a fingertip against them, the touch sending a shiver of unfamiliar sensitivity through her. They felt swollen, stretched, undeniably artificial.

Her gaze shifted to her cheeks, which were plumper than ever before, their exaggerated fullness reshaping her face entirely. She tilted her head, watching the light catch the unnatural roundness of her cheekbones, and tentatively touched them. Her fingers skimmed over the taut skin, smooth and tight, almost as if it had been sculpted from plastic. The tightness made her wince—nothing moved when she tried to frown. Her face was stiff, frozen like she was wearing a mask.

“Botoxed…” she whispered, her voice trembling as she fought the growing panic clawing at her chest. The realization hit her like a cold wave. Her reflection didn’t belong to her anymore. The face staring back was a doll’s—stiff, exaggerated, and vacant. A caricature of beauty, and not her own.

Lori took a step back, her fingers trembling as they trailed the sharp line of her jaw, the overfilled curve of her lips. Her mind raced with denial, but the mirror reflected nothing but the inescapable truth. The glossy lips, plump cheeks, flawless hair—all of it combined into a grotesque parody of femininity, something she hadn’t asked for but now wore like a second skin.

Her breath quickened, and she tore her gaze from the mirror, her pulse pounding in her ears. She needed to get away from her reflection, to escape the unbearable weight of what she had just seen. “I just need to relax,” she muttered, trying to calm the tremor in her voice. “Maybe a shower… I need a shower.”

The clack of her boots echoed softly as she padded toward the bathroom, the only piece of her attire a bizarre reminder of her altered state. She flicked on the lights, the sterile glow illuminating the sleek, modern tiles. With shaking hands, she reached for the shower controls, turning the dial until hot water began to stream from the showerhead. Steam rose, curling around her like a soft, protective blanket.

Stepping into the shower, Lori let the water cascade over her body, her platinum hair darkening under the spray. She closed her eyes, allowing the heat to melt the tension from her shoulders, trying to forget the image that had stared back at her in the mirror.