Beverly sat on the examination table, her legs dangling over the edge, the crinkle of the paper gown sharp and grating in the sterile hush of the room. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, their cold glow leaching warmth from her skin. Her fingers twisted together in her lap—pale, trembling, and marked.

The red rings stared back at her, angry and swollen, as if burned into her flesh. They weren’t smooth like rashes or welts. The edges were raised in tiny, curling ridges, irregular and almost… organic.

She traced one absently, shuddering at the wrongness of it. The texture was off—not rough, not soft, but something in between, something yielding yet firm. It didn’t feel like her. Not anymore.

Rubbery. Alien.

The door creaked open, and Beverly flinched, pulling the flimsy paper gown tighter around herself.

Dr. Patel stepped in, clipboard in hand, her crisp white coat a contrast to the warmth in her smile. She was a reassuring presence—calm, collected, the kind of person who had seen it all before.

“So, Ms. Anderson,” Dr. Patel said, scanning the chart. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

Beverly swallowed, her throat dry. Slowly, she turned her hands palm-up, revealing the grotesque red rings.

“They started about a week ago,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “At first, just my hands and feet. But now…” She hesitated, then tugged up the hem of the gown, exposing her calves. The rings climbed her skin in irregular patterns, curling up her legs like invasive vines.

Dr. Patel frowned slightly, pulling on a pair of gloves. “May I?”

Beverly nodded, biting her lip as the doctor ran her fingertips over the raised edges of one of the rings.

The contact sent a ripple through her nerves—something between a shiver and a recoil. She twitched involuntarily, an unpleasant heat prickling under her skin.

“They itch, don’t they?” Dr. Patel asked, her voice calm but attentive.

Beverly let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yes, but it’s more than that. My skin… it feels wrong. Rough, like rubber or plastic. And sometimes I swear—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“Swear what?” Dr. Patel prompted.

Beverly hesitated. “It doesn’t feel attached. Like my body is…” She clenched her jaw. Saying it out loud felt ridiculous. “Like it’s turning into something else.”

Dr. Patel’s pen scratched against the chart. “You say this started suddenly? No previous conditions—eczema, allergies, autoimmune issues?”

“No,” Beverly said firmly. “Nothing. It just… started.”

The doctor leaned back, studying her thoughtfully. “It could be a few things—lichen planus, granuloma annulare, or even an unusual autoimmune response. We’ll run some tests.”

Tests. A slow, twisting dread coiled in Beverly’s stomach. She had wanted immediate answers, something solid. Not this.

“I’m prescribing a topical corticosteroid cream for now,” Dr. Patel continued. “It should help with the inflammation and itching. But Beverly…” Her gaze softened. “I know this must be frightening. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Beverly nodded numbly. The words barely registered. A hollow reassurance, spoken through a thick pane of glass.

---

Back at her condo, Beverly stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at herself. She looked… wrong.

Her skin was pale, the rings stark against it like brands. Her once-lustrous hair hung limp around her face, and dark shadows rimmed her eyes. She barely recognized the woman in the glass.

With slow, careful movements, she uncapped the tube of cream and spread it over her arms and legs. The coolness was a brief relief—but the moment she stopped, the itching returned worse. It crawled beneath her skin, relentless, like something alive.

Her fingers twitched. She clenched them into fists. It was getting worse.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn’t need to look to know it was Angele or Joanna. They had been calling, texting, reaching out all week. But Beverly had ignored every attempt. How could she face them now, after what she had done?

She sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket around herself like armor. The room was dark except for the flickering glow of the TV, its muted images blending into meaningless shapes. Finally, in desperation, she called her mother.

“Beverly, honey? What’s wrong?” Her mother’s voice was warm, familiar—a lifeline.

Beverly clutched the phone tighter. “Mom… is there anything in our family medical history I should know about? Allergies, diseases, anything strange?”

A pause. “Not that I can think of. Why? Are you feeling sick?”

“No,” Beverly lied. “Just a work thing. A medical questionnaire.”

Her mother hummed thoughtfully. “Well, your great-aunt Mildred had rheumatoid arthritis. And one of your cousins is gluten-intolerant. But nothing unusual.”

Nothing that explained this.

“Mom,” she asked hesitantly, “was I… normal? When I was little?”

Her mother laughed softly. “Of course you were, sweetheart. You were a bright, happy little girl. Why would you ask that?”

Beverly opened her mouth, then closed it again. How could she explain the storm inside her? The fear, the shame, the certainty that something was deeply, irreversibly wrong?

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I guess I’m just feeling lost.”

Her mother’s tone softened. “Oh, honey. Everyone feels that way sometimes. But you’re my beautiful, perfect daughter. No matter what, I will always love you.”

Tears welled in Beverly’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Thanks, Mom. I love you too.”

After the call, she curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. The longing for comfort, for connection, was unbearable. She thought of Angele and Joanna, of their warmth and laughter, and the ache in her chest deepened. She had ruined everything. And it was getting worse.

She tried to sleep, but at some point, she woke with a start. The room was silent except for her own breathing. Something felt off.

She shifted beneath the blanket—and froze. Her arms… felt different. Slowly, she lifted her hand to the dim light of the TV. Her fingers looked longer. More flexible. The joints—had they moved?

She turned her hand over. Her skin shone faintly in the low light. Smooth. Slick. Like something that belonged in water.

A chill ran through her.

Beverly curled her fingers into a fist, pressing them against her chest as if trying to hold herself together.

She didn’t know what was happening to her. But she knew one thing for certain. This wasn’t going to stop.

It was only the beginning.

Not. The. End.