Four Hours

The desk alone tells me I’m way out of my league. I never knew a place could smell of money, but alas, here we are. The air is cool and faintly perfumed, something floral and expensive drifting through the lobby. The marble floors shine so brightly I can see the reflection of my scuffed sneakers staring back at me.

"Can I help you?" A manicured woman with a platinum blonde bob peers down at me from behind the vast curved desk. Her clinical white badge says Susan. She looks more like a Vivien to me.

"The whole shebang," I reply.

Susan’s eyes travel slowly up and down my scruffy frame, cold and careful. Her gaze lingers on the frayed cuff of my coat, the scuffed toes of my shoes, the tired duffel bag slung over my shoulder. I know what she’s thinking. How could I afford the Treatment?

"My name is Lizzy Rhode. I have a booking."

I hold her gaze without blinking. I have been saving since I was twelve, ever since I read about it in Perfection Magazine. I still remember the glossy pages, the before-and-after photographs. Three jobs and two-minute noodles can do wonders, as it turns out. Years of late shifts, cheap dinners, and counting every coin in a jar.

Something shifts in her expression as she clicks at her computer. Her eyes widen and she stands abruptly, the chair rolling back with a squeak.

"Of course, Ms Rhode. Please follow me. Doctor Allen and the team are expecting you."

The hallway behind the desk feels even quieter than the lobby, as if the building itself is holding its breath. Our footsteps echo softly against the polished floor as we pass doors with frosted glass panels and small silver plaques.

Thirty minutes later I’m sitting in a bright white room with a hospital bed that looks too luxurious to bleed on. The sheets are crisp and smooth, tucked so tightly they barely wrinkle when I sit. A glass vase of white lilies rests on the side table, each one poking out at a slightly different angle. Their sweet smell is thick in the air, almost syrupy.

It reminds me of funerals. For a moment a strange feeling passes through me. A flicker of déjà vu. The scent, the white walls, the quiet stillness of the room… it feels oddly familiar, as if I’ve been here before in some distant memory I can’t quite reach. I blink away the feeling, and suddenly its gone. My eyes return to the lilies. I wonder who they’re for.

Across the hall, I see a beautiful woman sitting perfectly still, her posture straight and elegant, her smile just a little too wide. She taps a fluorescent orange capsule from a bottle into her palm and swallows it dry. Her throat moves delicately as she does it, like the motion has been practiced a thousand times. I look away.

In the large round mirror opposite my bed, I study my face one last time.

This will be the last time I ever look like this. Thank God. My nose is too large for my face, my lips thin and stubborn, my ears wide and traitorous. My skin is pale in a dull way, the sort that refuses to glow no matter how much cream or oil I rub into it.

The kids at school used to call me Rabbit. Lizzy Rabbit. Their voices echo in my memory, cruel and delighted. But not for much longer.

Soon… soon I will be beautiful.

A psychologist who introduces herself as “Joan” arrives with a sigh, as if she started her day with a headache that hasn’t gone away. She sits across from me and smooths the front of her skirt before folding her hands neatly together.

"My job," she says, "is to prepare you for afterwards. And ideally… convince you not to go through with the Treatment."

She says Treatment like it tastes sour.

"When it’s finished, you will look nothing like yourself."

The words are music to my ears.

"That’s the point," I say.

Her eyes flicker. Not surprised. Just disappointed.

"Why do you want the Treatment, Lizzy?"

"I want to be beautiful,” I reply quickly, unflinching.

Silence stretches thin between us. I can almost hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the building.

Eventually I sigh. "And… I want to find a husband."

That does it.

Her composure slips, just a fraction.

"You will find a husband," she says gently. "You are unique. You are personable."

I smile slowly. Patiently.

"Husbands don’t want unique," I say. "They want beautiful."

She studies me for a long moment before sliding a thick contract across the table. The stack of pages look heavy.

"It’s very important you read this carefully. If you have questions, ask them before the surgery."

She places a small clear container beside the paperwork. Inside sit fluorescent orange capsules, almost glowing under the bright lights of the room.

"After the surgery, you must take one of these every four hours. You cannot miss a dose."

I turn the bottle in my hand, watching the light catch the plastic container. The capsules roll softly against one another with a faint clicking sound.

"I’ve never seen vitamins this colour before."

"They prevent complications," she says carefully. "Another reason to reconsider."

I slide the contract toward me.

"Where do I sign?"

One Year Later

I am beautiful now.

The mirror tells me so. Everyone else does too.

My wedding dress fits like it was poured over me, silk clinging to curves I didn’t have before. The fabric glides across my skin like water when I move. My nose is small and obedient now. My ears lie flat and well behaved. My cheekbones catch the light just right.

No one calls me Rabbit anymore.

At the end of the aisle, my husband waits. Eric is tall and symmetrical, his smile wide and effortless. His suit fits him perfectly, the dark fabric sharp against his broad shoulders. A man like him choosing me still feels like a miracle I should not question too closely.

When I reach him, he takes my hands. His palms are soft.

"You look stunning," he murmurs.

I laugh politely. "So do you."

"I do," we say together.

The guests release that soft, satisfied wedding sigh people make when everything is exactly as it should be. I wrap my arms around his neck, careful tears slipping down my cheeks.

Later in the evening, when guests are twisting around the dance floor and champagne flutes are gliding around the room, the clock chimes. A servant clinks a spoon against his glass. The sharp sound cuts cleanly through the music. Around us, every guest turns at once, their smiles wide and perfectly composed, as though they had been expecting the interruption.

“Your four-hour reminder, ladies and gentlemen.”

A ripple of amused laughter spreads across the room.

“Time flies when you’re having fun!” I hear one of Eric’s guests call out, lifting his champagne flute.

All around the room, hands slip casually into pockets and evening bags. One by one, small plastic bottles appear between manicured fingers.

Fluorescent orange capsules catch the light as they are tipped into waiting palms. The colour is almost startling against the soft glow of candlelight.

Without hesitation, the guests swallow them down with their champagne, their movements smooth and practiced, as natural as taking a sip of water.

Eric clinks his glass gently against mine.

“Bottoms up!” he says, and downs his orange capsule.