Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 43-46.

by BigBird74

We can all relate to that feeling of unease commonly referred to as our sixth sense. Perhaps it is a series of discreet signals picked up unwittingly over a period of time? Maybe it really is some form of extra-sensory perception, some invisible set of antenna that pick up a sense of danger? Whatever it is, Dahlia had first felt it as she finished her duties that night. As usual she had gone to the guest’s room that evening following the conclusion of her duties, only to find that the guest was no longer there. Disappointment rippled through Dahlia as the cheap thrill of playing maid and cleaner to the guest was denied to her. She found herself lingering in the room for far longer than she could reasonably explain, hoping that the missing woman would reappear and she could play the role of dutiful servant once more.

In the end it was only the appearance of Ms Nechita at the door that forced her to move on. The older woman motioned for Dahlia to leave and watched as the red faced and very fat cleaner eased her bulk past her and out of the room. The staggering extent of Dahlia’s transformation never ceased to amaze Ms Nechita. The doctor has told her to expect a significant amount of weight gain, but the reality was far in excess of anything they had thought possible. The professional inside of her winced a little at the numerous malpractices involved in their manipulation of the former supermodel, but the promise of a generous bonus had silenced her unsettled mind. No, Dahlia’s self-destruction was largely her own doing. She had convinced herself that she did not deserve all the gifts god had bestowed on her and all they had done was to open the door and show her the way. She watched as the former beauty turned and waddled slowly from the room, her fat thighs now starting to affect how she walked, making her rock a little from side to side.

“I will need you here early tomorrow. Our patient is having her bandages and splint removed. The results are being assessed as we speak,” Ms Nechita called after her.

That was when Dahlia first felt her spine tingle. The thought of seeing the woman she now served, at least indirectly, provoked conflicting sensations within her. The undeniable excitement of finally unmasking the mystery patient was tempered by a sense that she might not want to know who it was. After all it had to be someone who, like her, had to hide herself from public view. This place was mightily expensive and open to a select few. She had met so many people in her long career that she often found it hard to put a name to a face. Once or twice, she had caught a sparkle in the mystery woman’s eye that might have signalled recognition or familiarity. She had trusted the doctor not to place her in danger. Even so, her nerves were on edge and it took her a couple of hours to calm down enough to sleep.

The morning found Dahlia feeling no less nervous. A night of broken sleep and restless dreaming left her feeling tired, though no less eager to finally discover the identity of the woman downstairs. Showing a distinct lack of patience, Dahlia dressed and ate rapidly, paying even less heed to her appearance than she did normally. Her natural beauty meant that, when in shape, she had not needed to spend a great deal of time at the mirror. But since gaining weight and spending less time on her daily routine, her hair was left lank and greasy and her skin had also suffered. She had always suffered from occasional breakouts, when her face and chin would be covered in a rash of small pimples that lasted a few days. However, lately, the breakouts had become more frequent and seemed to last longer. Last night’s anxiety did not seemed to have helped matters and Dahlia frowned at her fat face as she looked at the fresh spots. Even if she had the time to cover them with concealer or foundation, she had no access to such ‘luxuries’ anymore and found herself too distracted to really worry.

Of course the girl Dahlia saw peering back at her in the mirror was not the one everyone else saw. Dahlia’s sense of disorientation was such that the image presenting itself inside of her head only partially resembled that visible in the mirror. She did not see the ugly folds of fat collecting under her chin. The layer of bloated skin that formed an unattractive mask concealing her former beauty. The cropped wig not doing anything to shield the harshness of her weight gain. None of this registered as the former model hurried downstairs to the patient’s room.

Turning the corner into the corridor where the guest’s suite was to be found, Dahlia saw Ms Nechita waiting for her. For a brief moment, Dahlia fretted that she was late. However, as she drew nearer, it became clear that the look on her supervisor’s face was not one of anger but curiosity. Just what was she so curious about? The tension carried in Dahlia’s belly made her courage falter a moment. Everything became a little clearer as she reached the room, a light sweat coating her brow, a sign not only of her poor levels of fitness, but a momentary peak in her anxiety.

“There you are Petra!” Ms Nechita exclaimed, her gaze firmly inside the room. “We have a surprise for you.” What she said next proved so jarring that, for a moment, Dahlia found herself literally speechless. “I’d like you to meet Ms Western. I am sure you know her from the news.”

Dahlia looked at her supervisor with a bewildered stare, as though she had misheard and was waiting for her to correct herself. But she said nothing.

“Ms Western?” Dahlia paused, confused, a slight, nervous smile now creasing her fat cheeks upwards. “What do you mean?” her second question was answered when she stepped forwards to the doorway and looked inside. At first the brightness of the room made it hard to see clearly. The figure standing in front of her was obscured by the contrasting light, her back to the window, through which beams of sunlight poured into the room. But as her eyes adjusted and she took another step into the body of the room, what she saw made her veins run cold.

Initially Dahlia felt she was staring into a mirror. It was only when the ‘reflection’ spoke to her that she snapped out of her trance like state.

“Hello Petra. It is nice to finally be able to talk to you,” the woman smiled, her green doe eyes focused on the bloated form of the cleaner. Dahlia staggered forwards, still unable to compute all that was happening. Silently, she half circled the woman, noting how her posture mirrored Dahlia’s exactly, or at least what it had been a few months before she started scrubbing and cleaning. Her bearing was no longer as straight or perfect as it had been. The substantial weight she carried on her chest and tummy unbalanced her and made her stoop a little. Perhaps the servitude to which she had committed herself was also having an effect: that inability of those of a lower status to look their social ‘betters’ directly in the eye. Ms Nechita had spent the past months gradually dragging Dahlia’s previously lofty outlook down to the level inhabited by the ‘invisible’ army of workers who had little choice but to toil every day for their meagre earnings. Unwittingly, Dahlia had come to respect Ms Nechita for her position alone, accepting she was of a lower station. That would have been impossible before, when Dahlia would have dismissed her as a mere cleaner. To someone looking down from on high, there was little to distinguish the two.

Dahlia had been one of the beautiful people and ‘Petra’ was the root opposite, not only in appearance, but in social outlook. During her time at the clinic, she had grown used to being bossed about, to feeling less than others, somewhat insecure. Her naturally submissive persona, long buried and hidden beneath her beauty and status, was now her dominant trait. The real Dahlia? The old Dahlia? The former Dahlia? No-one could be sure what she was now. All they could see was Petra, a loathsome figure to those that judged her only by what they saw. No longer able to rely on her looks, ‘Petra’ felt defenceless and stammered as she felt the room spin around.

“What is going on here? Who is this? I… I.” She finally managed to say, rallying what was left of her old confidence.

“This is Dahlia Western. Surely you know her? She was the face of Diabolique up until her breakdown a few months ago.” Ms Nechita carried on speaking even after Dahlia angrily turned to face her, her porcine face red and flustered.

“She is not the real Dahlia, I am!” she shouted, dramatically ripping the short, cropped wig from off her head to reveal her creased lifeless hair underneath. Dahlia had sorely miscalculated that moment. If she thought that by simply removing her wig, she would somehow reveal her true identity, she was in for a rude awakening. The jolt to her system generated by the shock she had just received had acted like a reboot, opening her eyes to the reality of her situation for the first time in months, the fog in her head finally dissipating.

The imposter had been admiring the effects of her surgery in a long mirror brought in for the unveiling. Shifting her weight to one side, she cleared Dahlia’s view to the mirror. The reflection now confronting her was not the image she had seen just ten minutes before. At first, she struggled to understand who she was looking at. The grossly fat woman with the large pendulous mounds hanging from her chest, which seemed to rest on her flabby belly. Her thick hips and thighs made it hard to see exactly where her upper and lower torso began, leaving one with the impression of a large shapeless mass, all covered in a drab grey dress. The folds of fat that surrounded her face, disguising her small features underneath her rounded cheeks and chins, were covered in that light outbreak of acne. Her hair, previously her crowning glory was a matted greasy mess.

Dahlia took a step towards the appalling image, lifting her podgy fingers to her face to confirm what she feared most. The whole room seemed to shudder as she saw the fleshy figure follow her movements and confirm that it was indeed her. For a moment she felt she might collapse as the dreadful prospect became more and more real by the second. The crimson hue in her cheeks showed how ashamed she felt as she realised the enormity of what she had done to herself. The feeling was like awakening from a deep but vivid dream and slowly realising what was real and was not. The effect was so disorienting that, for a brief moment, she even questioned whether she had ever been slim.

It was at that moment that the guest spoke again. “Petra? Is something wrong? You seem to be light headed,” she asked. This only helped to magnify Dahlia’s angst. Her voice! It sounded just like her own. The accent was similar; the tone positive and engaging. Even the distinctive twang in how she and her sister pronounced some words was there!

“Wait. You? Is that you, Melissa?” Dahlia asked warily, fearing she may sound ridiculous, but the more she thought on it, the more it seemed the only explanation. The woman smiled as if to confirm her suspicions, prompting Dahlia to step back again, trying to take in all that was happening.

“Someone had to do something to help,” Melissa replied coldly, “You were no longer yourself and seemed to be set on pulling everything down with you. Look at you! You are a disgusting, fat mess.”

Dahlia felt like running from the room, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of her shame and helplessness. Just at that moment, the grim reality of what she had done to herself was revealing itself. Waking from what had been a long dream, Dahlia was struggling to recall exactly what was real and not real. Had she not been fat for some weeks? She could remember seeing her limbs thicken, her belly fatten, her face fill out, but it had not seemed real to her or she had simply forgotten. It all seemed as though it was happening to someone else. What she did not understand was that she had been conditioned to interpret the reality as something else. Instead she was left wondering how she had let herself go like this!

The lifting of the fog shrouding her mind for so long, though sudden, did not strike her as anything suspicious. All she felt was shame at what she had done. Dahlia could think of no-one to blame but herself.

“Now that you have proven that you are not capable of controlling yourself,” Melissa continued softly, her voice once again soft and redolent of the privilege a woman of her looks and status would enjoy. “You will need to adapt to a new role in life.”

Dahlia shook physically. Her vast bulk trembled as though her body may explode at any moment. She stared at the floor, finding it impossible to lift her eyes and meet anyone else’s gaze. Remaining silent as her sister spoke, Dahlia was consumed with questions that needed answering, though she found herself utterly unable to assert herself in any way. The complete shock of the moment had shaken her confidence to its core and risked engulfing her completely.

Of course Melissa was fully aware of this and pushed a little harder. “When the last of the bruising has recovered, we will be leaving. This place is too expensive and I need to return home. There is a comeback to be staged and, after all these months away from public glare, a career to resuscitate.” Melissa’s confident manner belied the anxiety she was in fact experiencing. At any moment, she expected Dahlia to fight back, but there were no sign of it happening. As the minutes ticked by, she grew more confident that this was working, that she was literally ‘becoming’ Dahlia. The surgery had worked far better than she had expected, imbuing her with a sense of the possible. Now Dahlia seemed to be wilting rapidly, accepting her place in this new hierarchy. Yes. Melissa was now the slim, beautiful one that, when speaking, people listened to eagerly, waiting for her to shine a little light their way. She smiled, considering how arrogant that sounded. But it only reflected how she felt at that moment.

“Of course, you will be looked after. Just you will need to work for it, Petra.” Melissa repeated that awful name, knowing that it would only add to Dahlia’s shame with the erotic overtones it carried.

Listening to Melissa speak, Dahlia could only shiver at how close she came to being a perfect copy of her before all this had started. The voice was perfect. Her beauty shimmered and was the equal of anything Dahlia herself had managed this past few years. Indeed, Melissa’s body looked tighter and leaner than hers had for many years. Her hair was coiffured perfectly and was styled so that a stray curl hung seductively over one eye – just the way she always had preferred it. Melissa looked wonderful. She had also perfected the way in which her body moved. Her mannerisms, the way her arms moved, the nonchalance with which she cocked her head when listening, or how she stood with her weight on one leg to accentuate her curves. To anyone that knew Dahlia even reasonably well, Melissa would appear an exact copy.

That prompts a question: other than her sister, was there anyone left alive that knew Dahlia well enough to spot anything suspicious? When the thought struck her, she considered it very unlikely. Perhaps Tommy? Maybe her closer assistants? She felt sick when she realised the answer was probably no-one.

“Petra? Did you hear me? You will need to work to stay under my roof.” Melissa’s pointed question was designed to drive home the fact that Dahlia had really lost control now. She could feel she was close to pushing her sister off a cliff face and into the chasm below, taking all she was and forcing her to live a new, more humble existence. Then, suddenly, fearful of where this was leading, Dahlia finally pushed back.

“I… I am Dahlia. You cannot do this… it is wrong,” she stammered, clearly at a loss.

Melissa met her protest with a confident sneer. “Shall we see whether the press agree with that? Dahlia Western has a press conference in three days. Who is going to go? You or me?” Her tone was demanding, short and, ultimately, demeaning, implying how Dahlia would meet with ridicule if she dared to show herself. “You look terrible. You would destroy yourself and take your name down with you. You willingly did this to yourself. You wanted it. Admit it, you wanted to lose your life as a supermodel. We both know you cannot handle it!” Then, knowing the effect it would have on her sister, she preyed on the very doubt that had started all this. “You do not deserve it. You never deserved it. You simply had it all handed to you on a plate. I have worked for this. I DO deserve it.”

And so it went on for a few more minutes in a similar vein. It reached the point that Dahlia, like a punch-drunk boxer on the ropes, simply gave up. The humiliation was so acute that she could no longer retain any sense of proportion. How could she manage a press conference in three days? She was caught in a trap of her own making. How could she have been so foolish?

Melissa started to shut the conversation down. “Go and attend to my bathroom. It needs a clean,” she barked at Dahlia, who was now in complete shock and unable to think straight. As she hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her, with tears in her eyes, she heard light laughter ripple through the closed door. 

 

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