Ch.4)Touching Feeling /k/ edition: Making Sylvie Great Again

I look at the bucket, complete with a jungle of wires and clips, and offer a brief prayer with regards my wallet. In all honesty, this little setup was cheap in comparison to what a gunsmith would ask for and I managed to cut corners here and there with a few smart dumpster diving choices. Neither my budget or time was unlimited; it has been a week since I made yet another promise, this time with respect to my shooting cherry, and I dropped a good deal of hard-earned dosh on a few special odds and ends for her. I figured Sylvie would like them, especially the higher ticket item.

Sourcing out the parts wasn’t as bad as I had thought. There was plenty of scrap iron lying around even after the cleanup and I found a cheap, obsolete desktop computer at the local thrift shop to steal the power supply from. A good amount of my week was spent researching exactly what I needed for this to work and finally I managed to gather all the stuff together, from the buckets and oil to the varying grades of sandpaper for detail work. This was going to be a very long, drawn out process so I wanted everything to be perfectly in place to minimize any potential wait. Sylvie was going to battle against her trauma for nearly 12 hours; the least I could do is avoid adding to that time unnecessarily.

I go to my bedroom window and open it up fully. Walking back, I turn on the fan and direct it so it pushes any vapors from the electrolysis setup out the window. Doing this in my bedroom is stupid considering the offgas, I know, but it’s as much for Sylvie’s comfort as it is mine. Here, her human form can at least lie down on the bed and I can keep a better watch over her. I stashed some food and drink here just for this event; no leaving her side to grab a sandwich. And next to my food, in a cardboard box that arrived yesterday…

“Sylvie, it’s time.”

She limps along towards me, hesitating along the way. She honestly did look a decent bit better than when I first saw her; horrific burns and sores gave way to less ugly blemishes and scars. The rust still affected her internally though. Her loading gate still refuses to open more than a crack, her cylinder barely wiggles, her trigger is frozen shut, but she still lives. She bears scars from the heavy-handed attempts of my neighbor, gouges here and there in the metal from an errant screwdriver being used as a prybar.

Still, there’s no better gun I’ve met than her.

“Sylvie, everything is ready,” I hold up her revolver form up in my hand by the thick copper wire she hangs from. “I’m going to put you in the bucket and turn it on. I’ve daisy chained all the sacrificial steel so you’ll have 360 degree coverage of rust removed. Every now and then I’ll pull you out and see if you function freely. I’ll rinse you off each time until you’re ready, then I’ll wipe you clean and dunk you in that oil there for a few minutes.” I point to the three buckets, each lined up in succession. “I’ll wipe you off, put you in the oven for a bit to make sure your frame doesn’t get brittle, and then take care of a few odds and ends. I don’t expect for us to be done until well past 10pm, but I want to take care of everything I can today.”

She says nothing, but just looks down. I expected her to be gloomy, really, but it still hurts to see her despondent like this. At times like these though, there’s a surefire trick. With a few quick steps I reach out my arms and embrace her. There’s no lust involved this time, I barely register the pressure from her soft breasts. I squeeze her tight and hold on to her. Sylvie whispers something just beyond the threshold of my hearing so I let her go.

“What was that?”

She says nothing, but looks up to me with that big, blue eye of hers. Her countenance was plainly stained with fear. Her eye said it all to me, ‘Please, do I have to go in there?’, ‘Are you going to leave me in there forever?’, ‘What will you do if it fails?’ I feel a frog in my throat and I swallow with a dry mouth to force it back down. For a woman, a girl really, who had gone through so much already to be terrified of this last leap breaks my heart.

So I lift up my right hand to her cheek, caressing it. She twitches in response, as if she were ticklish. Then I decide to play an old trump card.

I pat her head.

She doesn’t really react, but I keep patting her head.

Sylvie frowns a bit, knowing what I’m trying to do, but I keep patting her head.

“Is this fun to you?” She asks, as I keep patting her head.

Her frown trembles and her eye twitches to keep glaring at me, but those are signs her guard is breaking as I keep patting her head.

Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat.

Pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat.

Patt, pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat.

Ah, I see her frown has gone away and her eye is closed seemingly in bliss. This should be enough for now.

Pat, pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat pat, pat, pat.

Ahh…this is addicting. I don’t know when it happened, but my left hand came up without my knowledge and began tickling her under the chin as if she were a cat. Which, judging by her sweet humming, might be the case. Sounds pretty close to a low purr if I had to guess. I stop my head patting, reluctantly, and get back to business. While she remains in a happy place, I put a tarp over my bed and carry her up onto it.

“Stay here Sylvie, I’m going to get started.” That blissful smile contorts to a grim line on her face, her body stiff as a rail as she lies on the tarp-covered bed. I’ve noticed how she gets slippery when I lube her revolver body, so the tarp is to protect my mattress. I get up off the bed and walk over to my desk to get her true form. I take her revolver form up to the buckets and finish up the last bit of wiring. I look over to Sylvie’s human figure as I hold her revolver body and the wiring rig up over the electrolysis bucket. I bite my lip and ease her into it. Her human form arches her back before settling down, as rigid as the steel she’s made of. I go over to the power supply I rigged together after an hour of online research. I finger the power switch; once this starts I’ll need to see it through.

“I’m starting it now.” I don’t even look at her because I know if I do, I’ll wuss out. And if she’s willing to go through this, what right do I have to break first?

I hear a small, plaintive hiccup. With that as my starting signal I close my eyes.

And flip the switch.

She screams and I run over to her side. She twists and turns violently, her screams stopping only to breathe before screaming again. I hold her hand in mine and she squeezes as if giving birth. Her screaming stops, but she hyperventilates, with each breath more shallow than the one before. I grit my teeth and brush the hair from her face with my free hand. Her forehead is beyond damp and I don’t know if it’s from the solution in the bucket or her sweat. I put the back of my hand to her forehead; she’s warm, but not worryingly so. I look at the clock, praying that hours have passed and I can take her out of this watery prison.

Not even a minute has passed.




A few hours passed and her breathing has gotten stable. Sylvie hasn’t let go of my hand at all; she’s refused to let me even go to check on her progress. Not that it would matter; if my research is right it will take nearly 11 hours to get most of the rust off. My past brushing and scraping sessions might have gotten the worst off, but there were far too many places inside her that I couldn’t reach and that I was too afraid to force.

Her breathing has slowed down until she’s only taking long, laborious breathes. Every so often, she spasms as if in pain and I can’t do anything.

“Sylvie, how are you…” I hesitate. How stupid am I? If someone saw that I was in pain like that and they asked me that, I’d probably punch them in the mouth. It’s so stupid that I can’t think of anything else; I can’t even wallow in self-pity, not when I hear the tiny gasps she makes when the electrochemical setup strips away long entrenched corrosion from deep inside her.

“Ahhh.. uggghh… ah…” Sylvie groans in agony and I fling myself on top of her, holding her tight to my chest. As if instinctively she lets go of my hand and before I know it her arms snap around me like a mousetrap. Nails dig deep into my back and try to bear the pain. If she has to suffer, the least I could do is share in it. She pulls her nails across my back and I damn near bite my tongue. The only thing I can do is hold her; I promised I’d never let her go. Fire races across my back again and I huddle against her heaving chest.

I’m not going to let go.

And for long, excruciating hours I don’t.



It’s about 8pm now. Judging from the lack of screams or moans Sylvie seems to be mostly cleaned so far. If anything, she does seem to be a lot darker. It was almost comical; if anyone else could see her they’d probably think she was wearing blackface all over her body. The dark layer came off easily enough with just a wipe. It had to do with the rust removal process if my research was correct.

I had been with her this entire time. Food and drink had been abandoned and luckily I hadn’t had to go to the john yet. Sylvie was as I said earlier, silent. But her breathing was labored still, quick drawn out breaths. The pain of the cleaning seems to have mostly passed except for the odd twitching. She hadn’t opened her eyes all this time. I try to get up from off the bed but Sylvie pulls me back.

“I’m just going to check up on your progress. I’ll be right back.”

She’s unrelenting in her grasp. She shakes her head quickly as she keeps her eye closed tight. I want to carry her with me so she can feel comforted while I see how much farther she has to go, but one errant twitch or spasm on her end could easily knock over something important. I try to get up and she pulls me back down with a force that I wouldn’t expect from a pro-wrestler much less this slender woman. Strength fueled by desperation.

It kills me to leave her side, even if for a moment, but how else can I see her progress? I try again, but once more she rebuffs my efforts and nuzzles against my chest, this time letting loose a small, pained squeek. Frustration starts to crawl up my spine.

“Dammit Sylvie, how am I supposed to see if you’re clean under that black…” Oh. There’s my answer.

I’ve been so used to applying an action to her revolver form and seeing its analog on her human body. But if I reverse that process, then maybe… It’s worth a shot. With a grunt, I heave her body from the mattress and carry her with me. But I’m not moving towards the buckets, instead I go to grab a few clean rags I had left on my desk. It’s a bit awkward, considering how tightly she’s squeezing me around the neck, but I endure it. White rags in hand, I get her back to the bed and I start wiping down her body starting with her face. Black sludge comes off in thin layers and I examine deeply the skin beneath. Once, there used to be a large scar, right across her right check that terminated right underneath her bottom lip. Now, instead of that dark, pulsating tissue there’s only a remnant of raised, healthy skin. Raw skin no doubt, reddened as if chafed with sandpaper.

It’s more than a start. I had read that afterwards, it’s important to really oil metal that has been restored. If that’s the case, then this redness means that she should be ready for the oiling process. Well, that is if her entire body is now like this. And for that, I need to convince Sylvie to let me go.

“Sylvie,” I put on my most dominant voice. Usually it would crack from the effort, but fortune smiles on me it seems. “I’m going to wipe down the rest of your body, starting with this.” I grab her breast and she trembles under my rough, unexpected grasp. Did I need to grab her boob? No. Did I grab it with the intention of shocking her out of her current mental state? Yes. Am I enjoying it myself and am I letting my hand linger in its fondling?

Most definitely.

“Haaa..haaa… uuuuwww…Ma…iaagh….ster…” Sylvie, for the first time since this morning, opens her eye. Her other, white eye is looking better too. Where it was once bulging and inflamed, now has regained its normal shape. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could close it again after tonight. Throughout this time, my hand hasn’t left its comfortable temporary abode, but was instead massaging Sylvie’s chest.

“Open yourself to me and let me see everything inside you.” I school my features and pretend that I’m not cringing from sheer embarrassment at my own dialogue. It’s hard though; I sounded like the self-insert of some preteen BDSM fantasy. Sylvie obeys reluctantly and I hope it’s due to the pain and trauma from the treatment rather than disdain and disgust for my cheesy line. At last, I’m free. Still straddling her waist, I sit up and take a gander at the sludge-covered Vaquero in front of me. My hand is filthy, like my actions really, but now I can see her breast. Healthy and pink. Well, those areolas are at least. I wouldn’t say they’re large, but they’re on the more generous side of the breast to nipple proportions. But yeah, healthy.

I keep wiping, spending extra time down at her abdomen. It’s nice and taut. Good, solid, tight. I look forward to her progress; if how clear her skin is on her abs is any indication, she should be finished everywhere else too. I run my hands and the rags over every part of her I can, readjusting her position and mine while always keeping my body in contact with hers. I take special care while wiping down her right leg; I still see the scars the rusting left on her, but they are mostly healed. In fact, if I had not seen the original damaged tissue so often I wouldn’t have noticed them now considering how well she’s healed up.

I toss the rag in my hand to the side and pick up a new one for the fourth time. Cleaning her body like this is fairly cost-inefficient. Still, like that one kid from that one awful prequel I could proudly say this.

“It’s working… IT’S WORKING!”

What is, the electrolysis or the cleaning? The answer is yes. I keep scrubbing at her, a job made more difficult by the fact that the sludge keeps slowly coming back onto her. Likely this happens because the gun is still covered in this muck, so my ministrations on her body are only temporary. Fascinating really. I keep cleaning and verifying every single spot of her body. And, with the exceptions of a few miniscule patches here and there I can say it proudly: She’s clean.

Now THIS is podracing.


“You’re really going to take me out? You’re not going to leave me in there and forget about me?”

“Sylvie, I’m sorry that you had to go through all that in that bucket, but this one is just distilled water. It’ll literally be a minute rinse to get the sludge off. Then I’ll take you out and spray you with WD-40.”  Dark Sylvie pouts as I try to explain why I keep trying to put her in different buckets. After confirming to the best of my ability that she’s mostly rust free, I carried her over to the electrolysis setup and, with herculean effort, held her up with one arm while I used my other hand to unplug the setup. The electrolysis bucket was a disgusting sight; a soupy, orange mixture with an unhealthy froth like the fat from unskimmed soup. In that ugly mess was a cleaned Ruger Vaquero.

Well, mostly cleaned. The water bucket was to get the sludge off her so the oiling step doesn’t get hindered. Still, despite the long shock therapy, literal shocks included, Sylvie had absolutely no desire to get in another bucket. Which led to this resulting little fight. I was honestly impressed she managed to bounce this quickly back after that grueling 10 hour torture.

“Master, you liar, there’s another one of those damn things right there! How many times do you plan on making me suffer?”

“Dammit Sylvie, that’s the oil bucket. It’s literally there to stop you from rusting again.”

“Why does it have to be a bucket? Couldn’t you oil me the normal way?” She defiantly glares at me but the edge of her anger is taken away since she’s still technically in blackface from the sludge.

“Because if I do it the normal way, I’ll miss something internal and you’ll start rusting from the inside.” I couldn’t get her internal parts out before the whole thing started, but if I somehow was able to I wouldn’t need to submerge her entirely in oil. But if wishes were fishes I’d have an ocean.

She winces at the thought of rusting again and grabs at her stomach, but still gives me the stinkeye. After this entire thing blows over I’m getting rid of every damned bucket in this house. They are not worth the trouble. She sighs and gives in. “You promise you’ll only leave me in there for a minute?”

“Sylvie, I’ll keep my hand on you the entire time. From now until the oiling is done. You won’t be alone in either of them, okay?” She relaxes a bit and I can almost see her turn back into her normal self. Yup. Those buckets are going away first thing in the morning. A cheap price to pay to have Sylvie back to her regular, more docile self all things considered. On my desk is a box of other items I ordered online, including a pair of thick nitrile gloves. I start walking to my desk and feel a tug on my shirt from behind. Without a glance back, I stop and offer her my hand. She accepts it and I try to reach out towards that box. After a few futile swipes I manage to move it close enough to get purchase on one of the cardboard flaps with my outstretched fingers. I reel in my prize and quickly put on the gloves. Now begins the mentally hard part.

Protection on, I move to the electrolysis bucket. Sylvie grabs hold of the back of my shirt again; I’m going to need both hands for this so I can’t afford to hold hers. For my own safety I double check the mess of wires before me. Power is off, alligator clips are attached to the plastic part of the bucket. All’s clear. Still, I gingerly lift up the thick wire that kept her suspended in that solution. Okay, no electric shock. I look back and I see Sylvie, eye focused on bucket with a mixture of grim anticipation and distrust. I feel it too and I bite the bullet.

I pull her out with surprising speed. Out of the soup, the revolver flies and I feel Sylvie’s grasp tighten at the sight of herself. She was covered in that black sludge and the ugly orange froth that floated on the surface of the water. I keep her in the air for a moment to inspect her quickly for anything I missed earlier. She takes that moment to release all the tension that had built up inside her with a sigh that held the pain of years. I hesitate; I’m beginning to hate buckets myself after all this. And with a silent prayer for forgiveness, I plunge her into the clean waters below.

With gritted teeth she hisses at the sensation. A different feeling, but the same trauma. This time though, I’m with her. I undo the wire that held her in that wretched cage; that should have been my duty to bear. Now I take that duty back as I toss the wire on the dirty rags across the room. With her in my hands, I begin to shake and rub away the disgusting layer of filth that built up on her. With a little resistance, it gives way. I don’t have a clear view of her since the water has become obscured by the grime I’m wiping away, but I see dark blued metal where there was once only red rusting. The surface grime has mostly given way, so now what’s left is… I look at Sylvie with my hands still in the cleaning bucket.

“You called yourself junk before, didn’t you?” She perks up at my voice and immediately looks down. But not tonight; I won’t let her wallow in self-hatred anymore. “Tell me Sylvie,” I position my hands on her loading gate and I can see her eyes widen at the touch. “Tell me, can junk,” I can feel it grind but I persist, “Can junk do this?”

I apply more force from my fingers on her loading gate as it, after so long staying unyielding, finally yields and snaps open. She stiffens her back with a gasp, as if her spine was electrocuted, and her hands jerk back at the sensation so long denied her.

“What about this, can junk do this?” I shake out her frame underwater and grab hold of her cylinder. Her hands go to clench her stomach and she hunches over. Against the resistance, I rotate her cylinder. It’s not a smooth action by any stretch so far, but it doesn’t matter. It moves. She moves. Tears drop down from her eyes. Yes, both eyes. I look down again at her and see that the rust that had attacked her front sight post had mostly been eaten away but a tad remained. I claw with a free hand at my waist where a multitool hung. I flip it open and with the flat head screw driver I scrape away at that remain rust. With a scream she covers her bad eye. Despite my cautious actions, my nervousness creeps into my hands. Hearing her hyperventilate I throw out every bad word I know as I desperately pick away at the last bit of corrosion. Finally, with the blessing of whatever god there is over these girls, I feel the bit of rust slacken and give way. Her screams die with a whimper and she labors away in her breathing. I look back at her, her hair covered over her face like that fateful day I met her. With my left hand, I pull her golden hair out of the way and look her again in the eyes anew.

Blue. Deepest, clearest blue of a country sky free of clouds. She looks back at me with those clear eyes, watered once by pain and now by a new emotion she must not have felt in an eternity. She blinks and her hand slowly wanders to her face to touch an eye that had long since given up its sight. Her wet lips move breathlessly, whispering words I couldn’t hear, words not meant for me just yet. Words that I don’t deserve to hear just yet, not until this last piece is taken care of.

“Master, I…”

“You’re not junk.” I grab her by the grip, taking care not to impede the motion of a spring long since stuck. “You were never junk.” With my left thumb, I start pulling back on her hammer. She draws a long, stuttering breath as despite the grittiness I bring her to full cock. And with a finger on her trigger I shrug off the glove on my now free hand. I take her chin in it so she could look me in the eyes. I bring her face close to mine, I feel the tension rise as my trigger finger tightens, and I say the words I knew she needed to be told. Sylvie, you…

“You are mine.”

A click muffled by 6 inches of water shatters the silence and tension as if a live round had gone off. Her eyes close and a soft sigh escapes her lips. She gently bites them and with a heaving chest, savoring what I can only guess a long-forgotten ecstasy. Her body slackens the rigidity from before a distant memory. Bringing her hands to the one I left on her chin, she softly takes it to her lips and adores it with her kisses, drawing my fingers individually into her mouth, worshipping with her tongue. She stops only to mouth the word “Master”.

I shudder from the feeling and swallow down the cringing in my soul. If she needs me to treat her like this, then I’ll take responsibility. But my work isn’t done, not by any stretch. I try to moisten my parched lips with a dry tongue. “Sylvie, stop.” She obeys quickly, albeit reluctantly. She lets go of my hand and waits on my every word. I see her anew, naked and red like a newborn child but with her full figure being anything but prepubescent. A figure that had been so long unpleasant to behold now has been unveiled, unleashed, unrestrained by the curse that had hounded her so long. And here, kneeling before me, this woman serves at my command.

Fuck the pressure’s on.

“Sylvie, get me that towel over there. We’re almost done.”



It was now close to 11pm and multiple forces were working against me. I was tired, hungry, parched, I had a headache, and the list goes on and on. So I finally got a break while putting her in the oven to prevent any hydrogen embrittlement. My research was unclear on the subject and I hadn’t really figured it through, but I figure it’s better to be cautious. So into the oven she went, willingly. It was a bit puzzling at first; why would she so eagerly march into what should literally be worse than a bucket? She had been smiling the entire time though. I guess it had to do with the heat. Makes sense really; guns are metal, metals rust in water, metals don’t rust in fires. It didn’t really matter. I was finally able to take care of some desperately needed self-maintenance. I drank like I was stranded in a desert, I ate like a madman, I pooped like a champion. Even jerking off seemed possible, until I heard a few solid knocks on my bathroom door.

Seems like I forgot she isn’t necessarily bound to the place her revolver form is. It’s a real pity, considering how I was planning on using her current form to get my jollies off. I finish up my paper business and bring up my pants. With a flush I get rid of waste and my hopes of finishing myself off tonight and wash my hands. I open the door and I am greeted by her kneeling figure. Her smile is so pure and intense I can feel the blackness of my soul burning away. I almost need to bring my hands to cover my eyes, she’s dazzling so brightly.

“Master, the baking is done and I finished cooling off.” Her voice is stronger now, confident and proud. It’s a lively, lovely voice with a southern drawl and an oddly seductive timbre. This was the voice of a southern belle who could enchant a man with the flick of a fan at night and could lasso a man like a horse at noon. It was a far cry from that timid woman I carried weeks ago. It was something I could get used to hearing more of.

“Alright. One last oiling then.”

She nodded before getting up and gracefully limping away. Her leg is better than before; she can support herself more fully on it. I follow her to the kitchen where the smell of cooked oil permeates the strongest. I opened all the windows earlier, thankful for the screens that stopped any bugs from flying in. Seriously, fuck mosquitos. And crickets. And cicadas. Spiders are cool though. Grabbing oven mitts I open the oven and pull her out. I don’t feel anything beyond a comfortable heat out of the oven; Sylvie didn’t steer me wrong in that. I close the oven door with my foot and walk her over back to the bedroom with her human form following close to lockstep with me.

“Sylvie, get on the bed face down.” I order her, although I try to be as gentle as possible. I have a small surprise for her in that cardboard box still and I don’t want her to see it just yet. She slowly stretches herself over the bed, inadvertently giving me plenty of time to feast my… or judging by that sideways glance she gave me it was advertantly. Is that even a word? Whatever. She obeys and I being oiling her as before.

“Ooooooh… ahh…ahhhhhh…yes…Master…more…”  Sylvie moans wholeheartedly. I stop my hands for a bit. She was never like this before, not this brazenly lustful. Well, maybe just that one time with her cylinder wiggling. Still, it’s a new temptation to deal with, one that I look forward to dealing with quite soon. Until I’m done here though, I can’t enjoy it fully.

The oiling continues and I inspect her blued frame and check her functions. It’s hard to ignore her quite verbal reactions to my touch and the unfamiliar movements of her body, but I persevere. I work out the grinding of her loading gate, I rotate her cylinder with care, I flex her out as I work the hammer and trigger grittiness. A joyful cacophony of moans and lewd noises echo in my ears from behind, but I continue working. At long last, she’s oiled completely but properly. She finishes her noisemaking on the bed, the bed frame creaking as she tries to sit up.

“Stay there. Close your eyes.” I look over to her and she obeys breathlessly, without a word. I rummage through the cardboard box and find the package I was looking for. I tear it open with my multitool and I pull out my gift to her. It was expensive, relatively for my budget. But after everything she’s been through today, she deserves it. I fit them on her and I hear a gasp from the bed.

“Hey! Keep them closed.” I order her, but don’t check behind me. I follow the instructions in the package and screw them on nice and tight. They fit perfectly, these black walnut grips I ordered from a custom maker. It cost me a pretty penny, but seeing the beautiful contrast of dark reds and blues makes it worth it. I feel it around and can’t find even the smallest part of them out of alignment. The man was a master craftsman. I hold her up in my hands, whole and functioning, a light shining against the dark backdrop of night. The wriggling sound on my bed startled me, breaking me out of my reverie. Right, she still hasn’t seen herself yet. I turn around and see her back.

She was no longer nude. Instead, she had on a long, elegant ball gown. It looked almost like a Victorian period piece, but a hoop-less affair. The rich, dark crimson lace covered over a deep black petticoat that modestly hugged at her curves. A dark brown leather corset accentuated her curves, yet judging by her continued movement didn’t restrict her at all. Her blouse ended halfway down her arm and a thin, somehow sensuous gap of skin showed before being covered again in long, black gloves. Sylvie continues to wriggle on the bed, and I’m almost afraid she’ll mess up her new clothing.

“Sylvie, stand up but keep your eyes closed.” She does just so and I take her hand. Her other hand smoothes down her dress, as if to get a feel for it. It’s only now I can see the front of her blouse; a plunging neckline where her breasts are proudly displayed. If she were to so much as jump, she’d probably end up spilling out. I pull my gaze away and guide her out to one of the spare rooms. Grandpa kept a full length mirror here, the one he got for Grandma so very long ago. At least, from what I heard. I station her there in front of it.

“Open your eyes.” I whisper the authorization and slowly she does. In that moment, there was only confusion. Then, as I could feel the mechanisms inside her turning, realization slowly set it. She turns to me, mouth open wide and I can only nod my head. ‘Yes, that’s you. You’re gorgeous.’ I remain silent though as she wheels back towards the mirror, leaning in deep and poking at her face, looking for scars that had marked her just moments ago. She pokes and prods and searchs and looks until she realizes what became of her ugly self.

An old memory.

For a good, long time she examines herself as if carving this strange person with her face into her soul. And finally, she turns back to me, wiping away a stray tear daintily with her gloved hand. Without a word, she flings herself into me, heaving sobs with wracked breath as her self-image finally resettles. All I do is hold her. I hold her and I don’t let her go until the sobs stop and small, grateful whispers erupt out of her.

I promised her, didn’t I? That I’d never let her go.