Think I Want to Twist the Plot This Time

Part 5

How is it she looks even better than when he first ravaged her? It's the first thought that crosses her mind when she glances at herself in the mirror, messy hair and tired bags under her eyes and all. Maybe it's because now she's relaxed into her marks, worn this new skin with confidence. If only she could keepsake more than just memories.

Well—she did bring her phone in here.

Oh, gosh, she's never done anything like this before. Then again, before now, she'd never gone up to someone's hotel room and slept with them. Besides, her phone is hers. No one else is ever going to look through it.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Barbie opens up her camera and gives a demure smile to the mirror, snapping that picture. It's not the best, but all she needs is just to look back and remember how much change someone can go through over the course of a night. And in the end, now that she loves herself more, isn't that a good thing?

Barbie gets herself ready after that, washing her face gently with the bar soap by the sink, finally finding the toothpaste so she can give her teeth a quick clean with her finger, brushing her hair as best she can so it's at least semi-presentable. It's a little harder getting dressed in garments she's not used to—it's one thing to try and remember how Oppenheimer took each piece off her body, but to put them back on seems darn near impossible.

Somehow she's able to wrangle her stockings up her thighs high enough to clip the garter belt to them, fumbling with her nails the entire time. And then she has to undo them once she remembers the knickers are supposed to go on before she clips the belt, and in that moment Barbie vows to basically wear the rest of her life in jeans and leggings. If she wasn't so keenly aware that Oppenheimer is asleep just beyond the door, she would have screamed in frustration by now.

Her determination at least allows her to eventually dress completely, even if her slip is a little off and she's sure she's made the hook on her bra one size too loose. As long as she's presentable enough to walk across the street, that's all that matters.

Barbie re-enters the room back on her toes, making sure to shut the light off before she opens the door. There's at least a dim light creeping in through the window, enough for her to navigate without reaching around or tripping over anything. But she stops dead in her tracks when she glances to her right, sees Oppenheimer still sound asleep. She quietly taps her phone against her palm, contemplates.

That's wrong, isn't it? It's one thing if she has the confidence to take a picture of herself, and has complete autonomy over that decision. True, he'll never see it—no one else will, as a matter of fact. But the more she mulls over it, what it would mean if she just snaps the most innocuous picture of him just for herself, the more her stomach turns. Barbie bites her lip, wishes she could just leave him with a parting kiss to his cheek or a hand through his hair. But any move she makes could risk waking him, and she can't take that chance, not when her modern tech and family and jeans are calling her back home.

As she drops her phone back into the pocket of her coat, her fingers brush a tube of lipstick, which Barbie's assuming is actually her lip balm transformed for the time. On the coffee table near that vase of flowers she noticed upon entry are a notepad and pen, stationery boasting The Palace's letterhead. She feels an awful drop in her stomach thinking about leaving without an explanation, but a little note might ease that pain a little bit. So she quickly pats her lips with that vintage tube of pink, picks up the pen, and writes something short and sweet:

"Oppie,

Can't wait to see the brilliant things you'll accomplish in the future.

Yours,