4. The First Transformation #2
I almost dropped the phone. My hands trembled as I deleted the photo, then the deleted file, then emptied the trash, as if that would erase the proof from the world.
My heart hammered, hot and wild. I sat on the tile, knees drawn up, feeling the soreness bloom between my legs, and finally let the first of the day’s tears spill out.
It was relief, terror, and something else…
a tickle of triumph, maybe, or the seed of addiction.
I dressed in fresh clothes: a sweater that swallowed my frame, leggings, thick socks.
I tied my hair back as tight as it would go, covering every trace of the night before.
My face looked raw and pink, as if I’d been crying for hours.
Maybe I had. Throughout the day, flashes haunted me.
The ghost of a tongue flicking the hollow of my collarbone.
The press of a thigh, heavy and muscular, pinning my own to the bed.
The taste of lipstick, mingled with whiskey, burning the roof of my mouth.
Every time I tried to focus: on the crossword, on the washing up, or on my emails, the memories slipped in, each one sharper than the last.
At noon, I found the matchbook again, lying on the kitchen counter.
I picked it up, turned it over, traced the silver lettering with my thumbnail until the surface dulled.
I should have thrown it out, but I didn’t.
I slipped it into the pocket of my sweater, where it weighed more than it should have.
I wanted answers. I wanted to know what had happened, what I had done.
But more than that, I wanted the voice back.
The voice that called itself Scarlett, the one that smiled in photos and laughed in the dark.
I wanted to see if she could take over again, and what she would do if I let her.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze, waiting for night to fall.
By the time the sun set, I’d made up my mind.
If there was a crack in my life, I was going to pry it open and see what was inside.
The taste of lipstick still burned the back of my tongue, sweet and rotten and impossible to forget.
I spent the next hour stalking my own apartment.
Every sound, every flicker of shadow in the hallway, made me tense up, like an animal listening for a trap.
I brewed coffee, cup after cup, as though I could flush the lipstick out of my system or somehow caffeinate my memories back to life.
The first cup went down hot and bitter, scalding the inside of my mouth; the second was lukewarm and tasted like regret.
By the third, my hands were shaking so badly I had to cradle the mug in both palms, just to keep from spilling.
I paced the tight corridor between the kitchen and the living room, my socked feet slipping on the waxed floorboards.
Each time I passed the front door, I checked the deadbolt, then the chain, then the little square of cardboard I’d wedged into the gap as a makeshift alarm.
I set the timer on my phone for every fifteen minutes, just in case I blacked out and needed a reminder to check the locks.
Paranoia was a ladder, and I climbed it, rung by rung, until the ceiling started to close in.
Midnight Velvet. The name repeated itself, insistent, even as I tried to focus on anything else.
I pulled up the website, but it was a bare-bones affair: a single image of the club’s lips logo, a phone number, and a rotating gallery of burlesque acts and dark, grainy photos of velvet banquettes.
I scrolled until my eyes went raw. In one of the pictures, a woman danced on a stage, legs bare and shining, hair the same brown as mine.
Her mouth was slashed with red lipstick, and her breasts were barely contained in a vintage corset, the cups scalloped like the edge of a petal.
She looked like she was made for the night, all tease and glimmer, and for a moment I wondered if I was looking at myself, or some alternate-universe clone.
Every fifteen minutes, my phone buzzed. I’d stand, stretch, and make a perimeter check.
Once, I caught myself in the hall mirror, and my heart stuttered: I’d been so certain that “Scarlett” would be staring back at me, red-lipped and dangerous.
But it was just me. I saw Lauren, with her puffy cheeks and big librarian glasses, her hair scraped back so tight her forehead glistened.
I almost laughed at the absurdity. But when I looked down, I saw that my hands were stained faintly pink, the pigment stubborn even after all the scrubbing.
It reminded me of old blood, faded but never quite gone.
By ten o’clock, my vision swam. The caffeine had stopped working.
My whole body felt like it had been rung out and left to dry in the wind.
My limbs shook from fatigue, my stomach hollow and sour.
But I was terrified to sleep, afraid of what might come crawling out of the dark if I let my guard down.
I tried to read, something about mythic archetypes and the duality of self, but the words blurred and reassembled into new, threatening shapes.
At eleven, I gave in and made a peanut butter sandwich.
It tasted like sawdust. I choked it down anyway, then drank another glass of water, then made another circuit of the apartment.
The world outside was black, the city sounds muffled by the insulation of old walls.
I imagined the club, its lights and noise and heat, and felt a twitch between my legs, a pang of recognition or memory or just plain terror.
I checked my phone again: still no messages, no missed calls.
The matchbook was still in my pocket, a dead weight.
I flicked it open and closed, open and closed, counting the unused matches.
I wondered if it was meant to be a dare, or an invitation. Or a warning.
As midnight approached, I’d run out of distractions.
My eyes burned, and my mouth tasted like copper.
I forced myself to stand under the kitchen light and rehearse what I’d say if I called the number inside the matchbook.
“Hi, this is Lauren. Or, uh, Scarlett, maybe. I was at your club last night. I think.” The words sounded fake, tinny and off, like I was playing a prank on myself.
I snapped the matchbook shut and set it on the counter, then spun in a slow circle, searching for any sign that things would go back to normal if I just waited long enough.
The next timer buzzed. I checked the door, then the window, then the sliding glass panel that led out onto the tiny balcony.
I was thorough, methodical, my own security system.
On the way back, I caught a glimpse of myself in the sliding glass.
My reflection looked paler, mouth slack, eyes shining wet in the low light.
I pressed my palm to the glass and left a print, a ghostly smudge that lingered for a long moment before fading away.
I was so tired I ached. My body begged for sleep, but I couldn’t let go.
I grabbed my last resort: an ice-cold shower.
The idea made me shiver, but I stripped down and stepped into the tub anyway, bracing for the shock.
I turned the knob to full cold, and the water sluiced over me like punishment, biting at my skin and making every nerve-ending flare to life.
I gasped, the sound bouncing off the tile, and stood there shivering, waiting for the clarity to set in.
I stepped into the shower, and at first, it was just cold.
Too cold, almost numbing, like a thousand icy needles piercing my skin.
Then, as my body acclimated, the sting softened into a strange, tingling pleasure.
The water hit my breasts, making my nipples stiffen and tighten into hard, rosy peaks, the air so frigid that the sensation seemed to travel all the way to my spine, like an electric current racing through me.
I ran my hands down my arms, goosebumps standing out in high relief, and felt the hard, rapid thump of my heart just beneath the surface.
My skin was hypersensitive, every touch electric and alive, as if my entire body was waking from a long, dull slumber.
I squeezed my arms around myself, desperate to stop shivering, but the movement only drew my attention downward.
My hands brushed the smooth skin of my stomach, and I froze, my breath hitching in my throat.
I ran my fingers lower, expecting to feel the tangle of pubic hair that had always been my silent act of rebellion, my final stand against the tyranny of “tidiness” and the eyes of men who liked their women bare as children.
Instead, I found nothing but skin. Soft, sensitive, perfectly shaved.
I could feel every ridge, every valley, every minute follicle, as if my body was a landscape I was exploring for the first time.