I stitched her up. Hundreds of tiny, microscopic sutures.
It wasn’t just surgery; it was identity theft in reverse. I was printing my soul onto her face.
By the eighth hour, my back ached. My hands cramped. But as I looked down at the swollen, bruised face on the table, I didn’t see a stranger anymore.
I saw myself.
It was terrifying. It was perfect.
I placed the final stitch.
“Bandages,” I ordered.
We wrapped her head in thick layers of gauze. She looked like a mummy. A cocoon waiting to hatch a monster.
I stripped off my bloody gloves and threw them into the biohazard bin. They landed with a wet thud.
“Recovery will take two weeks,” I told the head nurse. “I will handle the post-op personally. No one else is to see her face. No mirrors. No phones. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
I walked out of the OR. I felt light. I felt heavy. I felt like God on the seventh day, looking at a world that was about to burn.
Chapter 4: The Unveiling
Two weeks later.
The swelling had gone down. The bruising had faded to yellow.
Chloe sat on the edge of the bed in the recovery suite. She was vibrating with excitement.
“Is it perfect?” she asked, her voice muffled by the remaining bandages. “Will he love it? Does it look like the photos I showed you?”
“It is exactly what you asked for,” I replied. “You wanted to replace her. You wanted to make him forget she ever existed.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I want to be the only thing he sees.”
I stood behind her. I reached for the scissors.
Snip. The first layer fell away.
Snip. The second.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. The final layer of gauze peeled away from her skin.
She was healed. The scars were thin, invisible lines.
I picked up the silver hand mirror from the table. I held it out to her.
“Take a look,” I said.
