I stared at the pills I had just created that were supposed to give anyone who took them “eternal youth.” Though I had no one or nothing to test this on, I knew the only thing I could resort to was to test it on myself. If it hadn’t worked, ruining my looks in the process, I would work until I found a real way to create those pills that’d give an individual eternal youth. After all, they could “reverse time,” right?
I forced myself to stop overthinking and popped one in my mouth. At first, nothing happened. I brushed it off and waited for a few hours, then fell asleep. Though these pills didn’t seem like they worked at first, when I woke up and looked in the mirror, the person staring back was not me. A beautiful woman, a person I thought I’d never be able to become again. A younger me. But here I was, stupidly staring at my mirror, wondering if it was a dream or not. I touched the mirror’s surface. It felt very real. My skin looked too delicate to pinch. If it hadn’t, I would be pinching myself endlessly to see if it was a dream or not. But then there’d be no point, so who cares? I had achieved the key to real beauty. My skin was plump and full of life, my hair was pretty and flowing like a river, my face looked as perfect as a porcelain doll. What else could I ask for? I smiled at myself. Unexpectedly, it looked perfect. I immediately got dressed and requested an interview with a well-known beauty company. Unsurprisingly, I got accepted. A time machine was always expected to be something that required mechanics. But here I was, reversing time with a single pill. This achievement of mine quickly hit the news, people went crazy trying to buy it, and I made these pills into moisturizing creams, becoming the top “beauty standard” all over the world. I had also discovered something. This time-reversing cream hadn’t only been turning us younger. It was also making us look like who we desired to look like. I never remembered myself being this beautiful. But who was I to complain? That’s what I was thinking while preparing myself a salad, briefly cutting my finger while making it. Despite it not hurting, the cut looked so deep. Too deep. I was confused. I quickly used one of my other fingers and pressed it on my face, briefly moving it around. When I let go, a whole layer of dead skin came off. I pinched myself. And I saw something I never should have seen. Pieces of my “flesh” came off, revealing my old skin. In a second, I saw my old self staring back in the mirror. I didn’t get it. The look I desired was lying on the floor like a skin-suit now. Maybe it was one. I stared at the mirror again, and this time, an uglier version of me stared back. The mirror was broken. Almost as if she was angry at me for denying my own skin and creating myself a new one. I collapsed on the floor, and everything went dark.
I woke up in the hospital. At least I looked pretty again. Like I used to. I had apparently had a panic attack and experienced some quality hallucinations. I wanted to believe them, but my gut was telling me not to. So I closed my eyes to rest them, trying to clear my mind. Instead of accepting my own skin, creating a new, perfected version of myself was harsh. And I had learned that what makes us ugly isn’t our looks, but denying ourselves and trying to escape it.