She stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, glowering at her reflection. With her deep red lipstick and striking black eyeshadow, her scowl could smolder any of her thirsty fans. Given the right lighting and a tight top, her ample cleavage could ensnare her viewers. Paired with a spandex miniskirt and fishnet stockings, her thighs could squeeze everything out of their wallets.
She called this appearance, “Thicc Bitch,” and thousands would watch her every night as she streamed horror games. She would squeal and giggle at each jump scare, jiggling to keep their eyes on her. Rumors of an OnlyFans debut had tripled her revenue for the past month. These horndogs had single-handedly funded her condo.
She cursed at her reflection and began to remove this identity. She kneaded the fat on her body, pinching off clumps and discarding them in a box at her feet. She slimmed her face, toned her arms and stomach, and sculpted her breasts to be petite and perky. She pulled at her limbs and stretched her back, her body lengthening.
Once finished, “Alyssa Sparkle, Health and Positivity Guru” posed in front of the mirror. Her sneer remained. On her channel, her valley girl demeanor would peddle gluten-free dishes, natural medicines, and the newest sponsored products. These shams would all end up in her garbage, but thousands more would end up in the bedrooms and kitchens of her adoring housewife audience.
Alyssa Sparkle gave her Sparkle Girls hope that they could maintain a slender figure and a tight ass after their thirties had slipped away. They bought into and propagated her pyramid schemes. They loved the squeaky-clean, vapid act.
The woman that was Alyssa Sparkle would use the ad revenue and endorsements to order delivery food for every meal. She had purchased a house in suburbia and filled it with designer furniture. It was a home only for Alyssa Sparkle and her snake oils, broadcasting every Thursday and Sunday afternoon. The bed never needed to be made.
She began rubbing her body again, her flesh a clay to mold. She flicked her nails across her face, sweeping away the age and ushering in the youth. She took handfuls of fat from the box and squeezed it together, forming muscle. She pulled it into strands and laid them along her arms, legs, and abs. She buffed her skin with her palms, rubbing away any definition that could intimidate the boys.
Unlike the plastic Barbie Sparkle, this appearance was modeled after the girl next door. Natural, athletic, sexy. The one who makes the men pause when browsing the dating sites. She did not have a name for this one, but the Internet had called her a vigilante, a lunatic, a predator. “The Honey Pot” was popular among her followers.
With this identity, she catfished all manner of online creeps. Murderers, rapists, abusers. She’d toy with them, molding her body to fit their exact specifications. A dainty foot there. A freckled navel for one. Cartoonishly-large breasts for many others. She’d allow them to invite her to a secluded location. They’d find the girl next store, without any of her embellishments, but by that point she had them. She’d coo over them until they believed they had the upper-hand, and then she’d kill them. She’d take selfies in front of their castrated corpses, sending her beaming face to throwaway social media accounts.
Her face appeared on news stations, wanted ads, and fan websites. The marks still never seemed to catch on. It didn’t matter if they or someone else did. She could abandon this look as she had countless others.
She sighed, her frown falling to a grimace. She clawed her face and body, raking wrinkles into her skin. Excess flesh hung from her arms and cheeks, and the skin along her body grew translucent, green veins breaching from underneath. Her hair thinned and grayed as she combed it. She tapped her body, moles speckling the surface.
In the reflection, her mother leered at her. Her eyes bore through her skin, dismantling the identities that she used to hide herself. In the mass of furrows and creases that made her face, her mouth was a flat, thin line, just another cruel wrinkle. The reflection watched the naked woman as she trembled. Only the mother saw who her daughter truly was, and she only felt disgust.
She clutched herself, running her hands along her body. She smoothed out the wrinkles, sloughing off the excess skin and letting it sag to the floor. She cut hard against her bone, pulling her flesh even tighter. She gripped her scalp and ripped out the remaining strands of her hair. Her hands fell down her face, massaging away her eyebrows, nose, and lips.
She lifted her head. In the mirror, a skeletal creature shook, sexless, featureless. Its eyes had sunk into its skull. It had none of the characteristics of the women in her catalogues, search histories, or photo albums. It had no history carved in its body.
She no longer remembered who she once was, how she had looked. She only knew what she wasn’t.
She looked away from the mirror, positioning her back toward it. She wiped a film of skin across her mouth and nose holes. Cupping her face in her hands, she pulled the skin from her forehead over her eyelids, sealing them shut.
She collapsed to the floor, cushioned by the clothes of other people. She pulled her knees to her chest and cocooned herself under an overcoat. She would try to sleep.
The next day, three other women would greet the world with smiles.
*
Author’s Note: This story was written in a state of frustration due to the failure of another story in a recent contest. This story is based off a short story I wrote in 2010, the second I submitted to an online magazine when I was about to graduate high school. It was rejected.