Ch.20: The Dinner Party

Aris bursts into the basement.

He looks wild. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He’s carrying a portable dialysis machine, dragging it behind him like a dead animal.

"You did this," he snarls at me. "You poisoned her."

He doesn't check my restraints. He assumes I’m still paralyzed. He doesn't know my blood is diluted, my muscles waking up inch by agonizing inch.

He jams a needle into my other arm. A large bore needle.

"I'm going to filter every drop of adrenaline out of you," he hisses. "I'm going to scrub you clean until you're nothing but a saline bag with a heartbeat."

He turns on the machine. It whirs to life, a low, mechanical hum that vibrates through the bedframe.

My blood starts to flow. Dark red in the clear tubing.

I watch it leave my body.

Upstairs, the monitor flickers.

The scene has changed. It isn't the bedroom anymore. It’s the dining room.

The long mahogany table is set for twelve. Crystal glasses sparkle under the chandelier. Silverware gleams.

Guests are arriving.

I recognize them.

Dr. Sterling, the chief of surgery at Mercy General.
Eleanor Vance, the head of the charity board.
The mayor.

My friends. My colleagues. The people who came to our wedding.

They are laughing, holding glasses of champagne. They think they are here for a celebration. A "Welcome Home" party for Elena Vane, the miracle survivor.

And then she enters.

Isabella.

She is wearing my favorite dress—a midnight blue velvet gown that hides everything but the face and hands. She has a veil over her face, a sheer black mesh that obscures the grey, dying skin.

She is leaning heavily on Aris's arm. He must have run back upstairs the moment he started the dialysis. He is composed again, smiling, playing the role of the devoted husband.

"Here she is!" Aris announces. "The woman of the hour!"

The room erupts in applause.

I want to scream. I want to tear the tubes out of my arms and run upstairs and show them the truth. Show them the monster beneath the veil.

But I am trapped. Draining.

Isabella waves weakly. Her hand—my hand—trembles.

She is high. High as a kite. I can see it in the way she sways. Aris must have pumped her full of painkillers and stimulants to get her through the night. To mask the pain of the dying graft.

"Thank you," she rasps. Her voice is slurred. "Thank you all for coming."

She sits at the head of the table. *My* seat.

The dinner begins.

Waiters pour wine. Aris tells stories about my "recovery." He spins a tale of heroic surgeries and miraculous healing. The guests hang on his every word.

"Elena is a fighter," Dr. Sterling says, raising his glass. "To Elena."

"To Elena!" they chorus.

I watch from my hell.

Isabella lifts her glass. Her hand shakes violently. Wine sloshes onto the white tablecloth. A red stain, spreading like blood.

She giggles. A high, brittle sound.

"Oops," she says. "Clumsy me."

She downs the glass in one gulp.

Aris puts a hand on her shoulder. A warning grip. "Slow down, darling."

"Don't tell me what to do," she snaps. The veil flutters. "It hurts, Aris. It hurts."

The table goes quiet.

"The pain is to be expected," Aris says quickly, addressing the guests. "Nerve regeneration is excruciating."

"It feels like it's falling off," Isabella mumbles. She reaches up to touch her face through the veil.

"Don't touch it," Aris hisses.

"But it's loose," she whines. "The skin... it's sliding."

She pulls at the veil.

Aris freezes. The guests freeze.

"Isabella, no," Aris whispers.

But the drugs have loosened her inhibitions. She doesn't care anymore. She just wants the itching to stop.

She rips the veil off.

A collective gasp sucks the air out of the room.

The makeup Aris applied is thick, but it can't hide the truth. The skin is grey. Dead. The edges are peeling away from the hairline, revealing the raw red muscle underneath. The left eye—the glass eye—stares blindly at the ceiling, while the right eye—my eye—darts frantically around the room.

She looks like a corpse that has been dug up after a week.

"Oh my god," Eleanor Vance whispers. She covers her mouth.

"It's... it's a reaction," Aris stammers. He stands up, blocking her from view. "An allergic reaction to the medication. We need to get her to bed."

"I don't want to go to bed!" Isabella screams. She stands up, swaying. "I want to dance! You promised me a dance!"

She grabs a knife from the table. A steak knife.

"Isabella, put it down," Aris says, his voice low and dangerous.

"My name is Elena!" she shrieks. "You said I was Elena! You said I was beautiful!"

She slashes the air. The guests scramble back, knocking over chairs.

"Look at me!" she yells. "Look at what he made me!"

She brings the knife up to her face.

"No!" Aris lunges.

But he isn't fast enough.

She digs the point of the knife under the loose skin at her jawline.

And she pulls.

A flap of grey skin peels back.

The guests scream. It is a sound of pure, primal horror.

Aris tackles her. He drives her to the floor.

"Sedative!" he roars at the waiter, who is actually one of his security guards. "Now!"

The guard rushes forward. He jabs a needle into Isabella's neck.

She goes limp instantly.

Aris stands up. He is panting. His suit is rumpled.

He looks at the guests. They are huddled in the corner, terrified.

"Please," he says, holding up his hands. "She's... she's not herself. The trauma. The brain injury. It causes... episodes."

"She peeled her face off, Aris," Dr. Sterling says. His voice is trembling. "That wasn't an episode. That was necrosis."

"It's a complication," Aris lies. "A minor setback."

"We're leaving," Eleanor says. "We're calling an ambulance. She needs a real hospital."

"No!" Aris blocks the door. "She stays here. I can treat her."

"Get out of the way, Aris," Dr. Sterling says.

Aris stares at them. He calculates the odds.

He steps aside.

"Fine," he says. "Go. But if you call anyone... remember who holds your malpractice insurance, Sterling. Remember who funds your charity, Eleanor."

The threat lands. They hesitate.

They file out, silent, shaken.

Aris slams the door behind them.

He looks down at Isabella, unconscious on the floor.

"You stupid, ungrateful cow," he whispers.

He drags her out of the room.

I lie in the basement. The dialysis machine hums. My blood is cleaner now. But my soul is stained.

I watched my friends toast to my fake health while I rotted downstairs.