Skin Deep

The Duchess stared in the mirror as the last remnant of her most recent mask disintegrated and crumbled to the floor. An involuntary shudder passed through her as she faced the reality of her ghastly face. Her skin was drooping, and jowls had formed around her mouth and chin. Deep creases reached out like tentacles from her mouth and eyes, distorting her face into that of an old hag. This cursed aging skin was her most hated enemy. She wanted to rip it from her face and feed it to some wretched animal. Like the wretched woman she had become since he left her. Her heart lifted a little as she reached for her suitcase, knowing it contained all the tools for her salvation.

Long ago the Duchess had been the toast of high society, beautiful, charming and witty.  Enraptured by her lover, she had lived in a parallel universe to the one she now inhabited. Transported with joy, he worshipped her equally. Yet as time passed, his gaze was less and less frequent until it no longer lingered upon her at all. Finally her rejection was complete. The years had stolen her beauty and with it her man. The Duchess was scared. She had stopped smiling, hoping this would stop the wrinkles forming around her mouth, but still they encroached her beautiful face. So she stopped moving her face at all. Her communication soon lacked any form of gesture or animation. All her good humour was swallowed by this vanity. She imagined him laughing and snickering at her fading beauty, shocked by her grotesque face. The Duchess envied with rage the string of young women he wooed. She wanted their firm, tight skin, rip it from their face and wear it like jewels upon her own.  Tear him from their arms and bring him home.

As she distractedly fingered the smooth furrows of the beautifully aged leather suitcase, her attention was caught by a photo in the social pages. A burst of sickening jealousy pulsed through her. Enraged she snatched up the paper to see his latest conquest.  The girl, radiant with youth, stood in his arms laughing. He was intoxicated by her, gazing at her face like he once did hers. Her hand drifted to her own face, dry and fallen, and she screamed the howl of a child. 

The crack of the coach master’s whip lifted her from her pain. She quickly confirmed that everything she needed was in place. The scalpel was sharp and shiny, her heart steely with the courage to reclaim her love. She looked again at the girl in the paper lustfully. Her skin was soft and smooth and plump, her perfect new mask. Preparing the scalpel, the Duchess stepped into the shadowy night to steal her youth.