If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s to take responsibility for my actions.
When something breaks, take responsibility.
When there’s not enough time, take responsibility.
When someone else fucks up, still take responsibility.
Whether or not the end result was my fault didn’t matter. If I had a stake in the situation, then I had to take responsibility because when a person wants something bad enough, my mother said, they will do anything in their power to get it.
I run my tongue over my lips and taste the evidence of what I’ve done. I can feel it too; it’s sticky on my skin and drying to a crust around my eyes. The water in the sink turns black as I wash the tar off of my hands, then from my face. I scrub and I scrub until my skin is silky smooth. For the mirror, I smile my best camera-ready smile. There’s tar on my teeth, so I rinse my mouth and the water tastes of iron.
My one-bedroom apartment was never meant to have so many guests, but what can I do when they keep showing up to my door? Turn them away? No. My mother taught me better than that.
The only issue with having them all here, aside from how cramped the space is becoming, is how horrible they smell, the scent of rot masked only by the peppermint oil from my diffuser. And when I ask them to clean up after themselves, what do they do? Nothing, except stare at me with those glassy eyes that have no thoughts behind them. Silly, silly things. I suppose I can’t expect too much.
Annie is my latest guest, and I’ve left her in an empty corner of my bedroom. She has always been my favorite. I still remember the first time we met in the lobby of a casting call. We were both so young and nervous and naive back then. Before I leave, I tuck a stray strand of her gorgeous blonde hair behind her ear and kiss her on the forehead.
“I’ll be back after my appointment,” I tell her.
She stares back at me, unblinking. A little bit of tar is still dripping from her neck. I don’t have time to wipe it away.
“Clean yourself up,” I tell her.
She doesn’t move. They never do.
But I really don’t have the time to deal with it right now.
When I first moved to New York City to pursue a modeling career, I was so unprepared for what was awaiting me on the other side of that dream. For months, the most difficult task I had was to lose a sufficient amount of weight for an agency to take a chance on me. I tried everything from weight-loss teas to apple cider vinegar shots to pills of cayenne pepper powder. At one point, I even considered the traditional method of ingesting a tapeworm. Only for a little bit, of course. But it never got that far.
The point is that an agency told me I looked too fat in person, so I lost weight until I reached some invisible threshold that was deemed good enough. I was signed, on the condition that I cut six inches off my hair. It was a simple sacrifice after months of starvation, so I was happy to do it, happy to shed more of myself to fit the image they envisioned.
But getting signed with an agency wasn’t enough. I still had to appear for casting calls and get chosen. Annie and I became friends through these casting calls. We appeared for them one after another after another after another and time after time we were not chosen. I couldn’t understand, because Annie is so beautiful. She has an ethereal look that is at once commercial and editorial. Her body is thin, almost wraithlike, but with curves where it matters. She is the type of person who looks as though she was born to walk a runway, born to be fawned over by men and women alike, and she was getting passed over again and again.
I was also getting passed over, of course. But the two of us, Annie and I, had common enemies back then. There were girls whom we would see getting chosen all the time. No matter how hard Annie and I worked to fix our flaws, and we tried hard, we could not figure out how to land a job over those girls. It seemed as though there was something intangible and invisible preventing us from advancing.
But I couldn’t blame those girls. If I wanted to be chosen, then I had to take responsibility for why I was getting passed over. Somehow.
I knew what I wanted, for me and for Annie, and I felt that I wanted it badly enough.
My mother always said that if a person wants something badly enough, they will do anything to get it.
Jaiden was my first guest. I worried about how her visit would go, but she was so sweet and easy to host. She came one night, and she never left. We are taught in schools that blood is red, but when I pierced her veins I found black tar. It dripped all over her skin, down her neck and into her clothes. And I thought . . .
But blood is supposed to be red.
After Jaiden, I had more guests, more girls, come to my apartment and to my surprise each time, I discovered that their veins were filled with tar.
And I thought . . .
But blood is supposed to be red.
These girls must be demons.
Or angels.
Annie and I had much better luck after I entertained my first few guests. Those girls, those angels, had soaked up enough of the spotlight to last them a lifetime and they stopped showing up to the casting calls. That’s what I told Annie. I told her that Jaiden and the other girls had retreated from the stage and gone on to live quieter lives.
I was satisfied for some time. After draining my savings for months, I was all too happy to see some money come back into my accounts. Commercial shoots weren’t glamorous, but they paid the bills and for that, I couldn’t complain.
But a person only wants stability until they have it, and then they move on to wanting things like belonging and recognition and status and respect.
Annie slowly but surely stopped being my peer. She was booked again and again for editorial magazine shoots and runways while I languished in the unglamour of posing for athleisure brand photos that would be posted on their store websites and nowhere else. While Annie was starting to get her foot in the door with recognizable designers and invite-only events, rubbing shoulders with celebrities whom I could only dream of standing in the presence of, I was still just little old me. Little Keira Tan, who still could only blame herself for not having access to the same privileges as Annie.
Because, sure. Annie was taller with a more symmetrical face that was both conventionally beautiful and uniquely exotic. Sure, she had cheekbones sculpted from marble, round yet sharp eyes, and cherry lips that were just the correct degree of plump. And, sure, Annie never had to work for this face that was now working for her. But if I wanted the same kind of captivating face, if I really wanted it bad enough, then per my mother’s wisdom, I should find a way to get it.
The worst parts of the surgery were the blinding white lights when I woke up and the pain. It was such intense pain that I couldn’t relieve, and all of it concentrated in the bones of my face. There was no way I would have been able to bear it if my mind hadn’t been singularly focused on what this surgery would allow me to achieve.
For two weeks, I lived in the dark and in agony, with only my guests for company. During this time, I learned how to make the smell of them less offensive. With nothing to do except wallow in pain, I cleaned my guests as well as I could manage, wiping each one down with disinfectant and then coating them in resin. It cost me a fortune, but it helped to prevent more insects from invading my space. I spent another fortune on essential oils—my favorite is peppermint—to freshen up the apartment. And, finally, I started to feel better.
It took another two months for the swelling and bruising in my face to go down. Then, finally presentable, I responded to one of Annie’s many messages and asked her to come see me. I told her I would explain everything.
And I kept my promise.
As I clean the black blood from her skin (I always knew that she was an angel too), I tell her everything. She doesn’t like my story, I think, because she barely reacts. Her eyes are cloudy, staring into nothing, and her mouth is parted but produces no sound.
“That’s not very nice,” I say. “It’s not very nice to stay silent after a story like that.”
She remains silent anyway.
“Okay. Fine. Well, we’re still friends, aren’t we? We should document our time together.”
I pull out my phone and put my face next to hers.
“Smile!”
It delights me to see that the girls in the photo are nearly identical. The only difference is that one of them is smiling, and the other’s expression is one of perpetual shock. Two Annies in one frame. I can’t help but giggle.
I rifle through Annie’s bag and replace the contents of my wallet with the cards that are in hers. On her phone, which I can unlock with my new face, I find her schedule of upcoming events and casting calls and photoshoots. The deeper I immerse myself into her world, the more excited I feel. Soon, this will be my world.
Sooner than I expected, because Annie has a gala to attend tonight.
In the bathroom, I practice doing Annie’s makeup. My foundation has to be thicker than hers for now to even out the parts of my skin that have yet to fully recover. I also need a heavier hand with the concealer. But otherwise, I look perfect.
Before the gala, I have to get inside Annie’s apartment to find a suitable dress to wear and I’m in higher spirits than I’ve been in a long time as I skip along the New York streets. Nothing that used to bother me about this city—the smell, the curbside trash, the crowds—are bothering me today because now, I’m a whole new person. Annie was never concerned about these things. She loved the city, so now I love it too.
In the lobby of her apartment building, the receptionist looks at me and smiles. “Welcome back, Ms. Annie.”
That’s me.
I return the kindness with a smile that I’ve been practicing for weeks. “Thank you!”
“Have a wonderful rest of your day.”
“You too.”
The smile doesn’t leave my face until I’m in the confines of her apartment, which smells just like her skin, and I’m still smiling as I rifle through the clothes in her closet. When I pull a gorgeous red dress from its hanger, something sharp pierces my skin and my smile falters.
Until I see that the color of the blood staining my skin doesn’t match the color of the dress.
My mother always said to take responsibility. My mother always said that if a person wants something badly enough, they will find a way to get it.
I wished to become an angel, and it looks like I wanted it bad enough.
