Chapter Two: Wearing the Mask for the First Time (Part 2)

Elena stood at the mirror and didn't move right away.

The lamp lit her from the side, and the black latex covering her shone under it like it had been poured over with a thin layer of oil. She was scared of ghosts, and her first instinct was to rip the stuff off. She clapped a hand to her face and picked at the edge of the mask. Nothing came loose; she couldn't even get a nail under it. She pulled harder. The mask moved, her skin moved with it, and still they wouldn't separate. Her chest clenched. She really had turned into a ghost. Her fingers were trembling.

"...This isn't me," she said under her breath, her voice tight.

Marcus stood a little way off, watching her. "You're still you," he said quietly.

She didn't answer right away. She stared at the face in the mirror, raised her right hand, and laid her fingertips on her cheek, sliding them slowly downward. They paused under her eyes, then kept going until they found her lips. With her index and middle fingers she pressed the soft swell in the middle of her mouth, pressed and let go, watching it slowly spring back. The panic was still there. But what her fingers felt was warm and smooth—not cold the way she'd imagined, not out of control. The trembling slowly stopped.

Her face did look like a ghost's. And yet it had an allure she couldn't put a name to.

Her pure black eyes were bottomless, gazing quietly back at her. Every blink was slow and tacky; her lashes drew out fine silver threads as they parted, then softly stuck again. No irises, no pupils—and still those eyes looked like they could pull a person in. The sides of her lips had been drawn long and thin while the center swelled full and soft, as if they might part at any moment and show the black fangs inside. She bit gently at her lower lip; the latex lip gave, the soft middle sinking and slowly rising again, wet with shine. Looking at herself, she felt something odd: this face looked like a ghost's, but it wasn't really that frightening. The tightness in her chest eased a little.

The two little horns on her forehead were smooth and warm. Her ear tips had been drawn long and fine, and the slightest movement bent the latex there. Her chin narrowed sharp and clean, her crown was rounded, and her whole outline was smoother and firmer than before, yet softened by that oil-bright black latex. She pressed her cheek. Her fingertips slid almost without resistance, like stroking warm, oiled skin. It sank slowly under pressure and came back slow and soft, with a faint drag. She stared into those pure black eyes for a while. Her heart was still racing, but she wasn't as frantic as before.

Under the glossy black latex, her own features still showed faintly. Where her eyes sat, the bridge of her nose, the outline of her lips—all floating just beneath the surface, as if seen through dark water. When she blinked, the blurred features moved with her: ghostly, and yet a trace of herself, deliberately left behind. A little more of the fear drained away. In its place came a curiosity she couldn't quite explain.

She took her hand from her face, turned sideways, and looked at her body in the mirror.

Her waist was so small it didn't look like hers.

There used to be a soft roll at her sides, her belly a little rounded. Now the roll was gone completely. Her waist cinched in hard just below her ribs and stayed cinched all the way to the top of her hips, as if bound by an invisible corset. She touched her side. Smooth, warm latex under her fingertips, dimpling slightly when she pressed and slowly springing back. She set both hands on her waist—thumbs in front, fingers behind—and slowly squeezed, feeling the narrow line that had been carved there. In the mirror that waistline was slim and clean, and it made the curves of her breasts and hips stand out all the more. The lamplight ran along the inward curve in a black sheen, as if it had been sculpted on purpose. Looking at it, she thought: maybe this isn't so bad. Curiosity slowly turned into appraisal.

Her breasts had been lifted high and firm.

They used to hang naturally, with a little weight. Now the latex held them up completely—rounder, fuller, sitting higher. She looked down: both breasts sealed tight in black membrane, their outline crisp, rising and falling softly with her breath. She cupped them. They were heavier than before, yet held so firmly they barely moved. When she pressed, the surface sank slowly and recovered with a springy give. Her nipples were wrapped tight beneath the membrane, and the lightest touch brought out the sensitivity inside, as if something were sucking on them gently. She pinched lightly with her fingertips; the membrane deformed but never left her skin, warm and faintly tacky. She covered both breasts with her hands, palms flat, and kneaded them twice, watching them shift in the mirror. More of the fear melted away, replaced by a strange admiration. She stared at her chest in the mirror for a while, and her breathing slowed.

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