Chapter 38: The Emerald Eyes
To be honest, I should have known what to expect from the patrons I’d seen entering from the street. Not a single one of them had been what my old world would have called "attractive." In my past life, I was a recluse, a shut-in, more comfortable with the two-dimensional girls of my comics than the complexities of real women. So it was no surprise that the grim reality of these women's lives did nothing to stir my former self's appetites. Malnutrition, a lifetime of back-breaking labour, and a complete lack of care had aged them prematurely, carving harsh lines into their faces and stealing the youth from their bodies. It was a tragedy, but I felt no disgust, only a profound, hollow sense of pity. They had been forced to sacrifice their youth and beauty to the relentless, grinding machine of survival.
I turned away from the other women and walked to an empty basket. I shed my cloak, then Jared’s oversized shirt, placing them neatly inside. And that was it. That was all I had. Then I saw it, propped against a damp wooden wall: a full-length mirror, its surface surprisingly clean, likely polished daily by the staff. A common enough object for a bathhouse, for customers to arrange their hair and clothes. Standing before it, I was able to truly see myself for the first time. I had glimpsed my reflection before, but only in a feverish haze, in a darkened alley. Only a mirror could show me my face, could show me the stranger whose body I now inhabited.
The body itself was a pathetic sight—a barren, stick-thin landscape of jutting ribs and pale skin, a canvas of childhood malnutrition. The grimy film that covered my torso and legs stood in stark contrast to my freshly scrubbed face and hands. The other women paid me no mind; a body caked in the dirt of the factories was a common enough sight here. We were all marked by the city's filth. Then I looked at my face. It was a child’s face, round and sweet, and now that it was clean, undeniably cute. But it was gaunt, the bones too prominent, giving me a pitiable, haunted look that I imagined would stir sympathy even under a layer of dirt. My hair was a matted mess, still caked with grime, some strands hopelessly knotted together like old rope. But even in its wretched state, I could see the potential beauty of it: a strange, striking gradient that shifted from inky black at the roots to a shimmering, ethereal gold at the tips.
And finally, my eyes. But my eyes… they stole the breath from my lungs. They were a brilliant, burning emerald green, so pure and bright they seemed to glow with an inner light, utterly out of place in this gaunt, grimy face. And they were… terrifyingly familiar. I felt a jolt, a shock of recognition that went deeper than memory. I had seen these eyes before. And then it hit me with the force of a physical blow. They were Jared’s eyes. Not similar. Not just the same colour. They were his eyes, identical in every way, down to the same startling, gemstone fire. They were his eyes, staring back at me from my own reflection.
A wave of dizziness washed over me. A coincidence? Was it a common trait in this part of the world, for people to have such eyes? I quickly scanned the other women in the changing room. No. None of them had eyes like these. Theirs were brown, or grey, or a watery, indistinct blue. None had this impossible, brilliant green.
Shaking my head, trying to clear the sudden fog of confusion and dread, I turned from the mirror, picked up my bucket and towel, and walked into the bathing area. It wasn't large; it could perhaps accommodate ten people at once. During the evening rush, after the factories let out, there would surely be a queue. But for now, it was relatively empty. Four or five women were washing at the taps, and another three were soaking in the large, sunken bath. But the warmth… the moment I stepped into the room, a wave of blissful, humid heat washed over me, so comforting I almost wanted to stop and just stand there. The cold, cruel world outside seemed a million miles away. And then I saw the showers. On either side of the room were five strange-looking metal heads, from which sprayed jets of hot water. Showers. After the shock of the steam-pump and the water tower, perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. But still, the sight of such a modern convenience in this grimy, gaslit world was another jarring, wonderful, and deeply unsettling anomaly.
Author's Note
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