From a tender age, every girl I knew growing up had an aesthetic vision of who they wanted to become; for some of them, it was their favorite singer or actress, but for me - and most of my friends - the vision was directly taken from my Barbie dolls.
If you’ve ever taken a careful look at one, it quickly becomes clear that a woman with her exact proportions would be grotesquely unhealthy; not any of her video game, movie, or storybook portrayals, but the shape of the dolls themselves. There’s not enough room in her stomach to fit her organs while allowing her to comfortably digest food, and her limbs don’t appear strong enough to allow her to engage in many of the activities her playsets allow her to do.
If a Barbie doll set were realistic, it would feature her in a wheelchair or a hospital bed. Nothing else, not until she began to resemble what a healthy, trim woman is supposed to look like.
Even so, this didn’t stop my friends and I from shaping our desired self-image around the idea of what Mattel sold us as how a girl should look; we spent countless sleepovers painting each other’s toes and fingernails just like hers, and carefully did our makeup once our parents let us buy it. We grew out of playing with dolls and moved onto boys not long afterwards, but our minds were absolutely melded by years of careful corporate marketing and messaging.
My life continued as routine until I was graduated from high school, at which point one of the friends from the group I grew up with secured what she claimed was a lucrative job at a trendy, youthful marketing firm. We’ll call her Sophie, but no one else involved in the events that would follow deserves to have their names mentioned or changed.
She excitedly informed me that the firm was called “SculptMe,” a beauty manufacturer that sold “rejuvenative care products.” The specific nature of their products varied by application, from anti-aging creams to what they referred to as “corporeal rearrangement regiments.” Sophie gushed about the last type of product most often, claiming it would take the health and beauty world by storm and change the image of the American woman as we understood it. I was happy that she found direction so soon after graduation, and was still unsure of my fate regarding my application to my dream college.
Luckily for me, I was accepted to where I applied and was financially helped out enough by my parents to not have to worry about much more than books, food, and transportation. To cover these, I did ridesharing during my time away from classes and made enough to cover both necessities and luxuries. I spent this time casually hooking up with guys, but found myself not always attracting the men I wish I could. I looked good, but felt… underdeveloped. I had an unhealthy habit of comparing myself to other girls at that age, and the beauty standards I grew up with did nothing to help. The more I internally picked apart and criticized my body, the more I thought about Sophie and the line of beauty products she was pushing on social media. Certain she could help, I gave her a call between classes one morning.
“Hey, hun!” she chirped upon picking up the phone, a tone of vapid cheer dripping from her every word. “How’s campus life?!”
“Good,” I smiled into the phone, happy to hear her sound so fulfilled. “How’s corporate life treating you? I see you all the time online.”
“You know how it is, babe,” she giggled. “Sell, sell, sell! Have you ever wanted to be your own boss and work with a group of like-minded, goal-oriented professionals?”
“I would,” I politely replied, “but I already have a stable job where I get to set my own hours. I was actually interested in checking out your selection.”
“Abso-lute-ly! Wanna do lunch?”
“That’d be nice,” I answered, thinking I could see what she has to offer while possibly catching up on the particulars of what we’ve each been up to in our time apart. We set a lunch date shortly thereafter, and I met her at a bistro in town during the early afternoon. I sat outside and waited for her, and she arrived in a huff.
“Sorry,” she sighed, shaking her head as she sat down across from me. “Got held up in a meeting.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “Sounds like the office has you pretty busy these days.”
“You have no idea, babe,” she laughs, shaking her head before we each order our drinks. “Anyways, how’s school? Met any guys yet?”
“A few,” I playfully wink. “You know how it is.”
“I’m surprised you can keep them off of you at all,” she smiled. “Not ready to get tied down yet?”
“It’s not that,” I confessed. “I have no trouble getting dates, but the guys I’m really into seem just out of my reach. I don’t know what I’m missing.”
“You know I love you,” she qualified, “but self-improvement is always a never-ending journey. You’ve never had the biggest… assets.”
“Sophie!”
“I’m sorry,” she shrugged, “but you know it’s true. None of the girls ever got you down about it because you can’t help it, but there are ways to change that now.”
“Is that why you agreed to do lunch?” I inquired, now offended that a girl who claimed to be my friend would weaponize my own insecurities against me.
“You asked about the products.” she flatly pointed out. “Are you interested or not?”
I figured whatever she had to offer couldn’t hurt. “Yes,” I meekly responded.
“Atta girl,” she grinned, her bubbly persona returning as she produced a folding, hard plastic case that unfolded to reveal three small containers of beauty cream. They were each branded with stickers that read DollGel in hot pink, cursive font. The caps were white, crimson, and peach, differentiating their different uses. “This is our carving cream,” she informed me, pointing to the white. “Follow the instructions to carve away any curves you do or don’t want and your body will do the rest.”
“I don’t really have any curves, though,” I pointed out with a laugh.
“No,” she frowned while inspecting me, “but your stomach could be about half that size on the sides. This,” she continued, gesturing to the crimson container, “is our adjustment cream. Anywhere you apply this, muscle, fat, and anything else needed will grow depending on quantity and frequency of use. There’s like a bunch of neat tech that went into this, I’ll have to give you the tour sometime.”
“Okay,” I nod in understanding, taking everything in that she taught me. “What about the peach?”
“I shouldn’t have had that in here,” she sighs. “They won’t even let me use it yet, it’s the ‘final step.’ It looks great on the girls who have it, you just have to be deemed a worthy personality for them to sell it to you.”
My mental alarms began ringing at her mention of the phrase “worthy personality.” This now sounded like more of a cult than a business, but she also didn’t seem like the kind of girl who would fall for something that nefarious. Considering all of my options, I decided to buy into the treatment and stop if I decided it wasn’t right for me. “I’ll take one jar of the carving and adjustment creams, please,” I decided with a smile.
“Great!” she grinned, handing the containers from the case to me. “Your first jars are on us, just drop by the office for more.” We spent the rest of lunch regaling each other with gossip and anecdotes, and had a nice time as we ate, chatted, and laughed. It was only when she rose from her seat that I noticed her waist was disproportionately contorted in relation to her hips and breasts. The ratio took me aback, like the skinniest part of an hourglass wedged directly between the most round sections. “This might sound strange,” I asked, “but does that… hurt?” I pointed to her stomach, as it looked intensely uncomfortable.
“Now now,” she laughed, confidently placing her hands on her hips. It was so thin that her fingertips almost touched just relaxedly resting on her skin. “You get a bit achy and sore the first couple of times, but that goes away super quickly. I recommend you don’t do it if you ate in the hour before application, though,” she warned.
“Got it,” I blankly replied, unsure of how to respond to what I’d just seen. She seemed perfectly happy with the way she looked, but her use of the carving cream was excessive. I told myself that I’d simply not overdo it to avoid looking like her, if I used it at all. My stomach was one of the areas I was most happy with, and I saw no need to change it.
That night, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror after I finished showering. Opening the jar of adjustment cream my friend gave me, I took a glob with my forefingers and inspected it. It smelled like plastic, and had the consistency of styling gel. It felt cool on my fingertips as I applied it to the areas I felt could be more ample, and dried without flaking off or sticking to the touch. Carefully redressing, I then laid in bed and quickly drifted out of consciousness.
A searing ache awakened me thirty minutes before the alarm for my first class the following morning, my chest feeling as if it had been stepped on by an elephant. I could breathe without issue, but every inch of flesh where I had applied the gel the night before pulsated with a sore achiness. Standing upright, planting my soles on the hardwood floor, and rising to my feet required me to ignore a fair amount of pain. I stiffly shuffled directly to the bathroom, reading the back of the gel. Apply every 12 hours, its instructions read. Discomfort may occur following first two applications. If it persists with the third, stop use and seek medical attention immediately. SculptMe, LLC. and all of its affiliates are not legally responsible for any harm caused by the use of this product, and you agree to not pursue civil or criminal action with the purchase of DollGell or any other of SculptMe’s beauty products.
Shaking my head a little at the placement of such a disclaimer, I shrugged off the pain as part of the listed side effects and worked through it while getting ready for the day. I found that the more I moved, the less severe the pain became as time went on. By the time I went to put on my second application that night, it was mild enough to not keep me from slumber.
True to Sophie’s word, the pain stopped after the second regiment altogether. Over the course of regular application that week, I noticed my chest, thighs, and behind grow to pleasantly round sizes in accordance with how much cream I used upon each area. It felt nice to have to go shopping for new clothes, and I felt more male eyes on me than ever. In addition to the boost of confidence I gave myself, however, I also felt an unplaceable desire to use the carving cream. Nothing had changed about my stomach, but something kept nagging at me to reshape my core to look better. I stopped using the adjustment cream once I was satisfied with my look, and conservatively began using the carving cream on my sides.
As expected, the pain stopped after two applications yet again. I remembered to not eat an hour before each use, and I felt my organs rearranging as my body contorted to an unfamiliar shape. It didn’t hurt, per se, but I did get nauseated a couple of times before everything settled. While I didn’t look as drastic as Sophie, I did appear as if I had gotten work done.
Soon thereafter, I stopped using both creams and didn’t feel any side effects as a result. I did notice, however, that my stool and sweat turned to shades of neon pink and persisted in this color no matter what I did or ate. After a few weeks of this startlingly unexpected change, I made a doctor’s appointment and decided to bring both creams with me in case she wasn’t familiar with the products herself.
In the exam room, I began to feel like a bimbo - I suppose that attitude could’ve come from the fact that I already made myself look like one, however. I didn’t even ask if this shit was FDA approved, why did I just put it on my body without thinking of what could happen? I knew I had no compensatory recourse if any damage was done, and was only hoping that any damage done was reversible.
My doctor entered and began examining me; my blood pressure and oxygen were perfectly normal, but her eyes widened when she began to listen to my stomach.
“What have you been eating?” she asked, trying her best to hide her shocked expression.
“Nothing I don’t usually eat,” I replied. “Do you know what’s wrong?”
“It sounds like there’s a cement mixer in your stomach,” she informed me. “Have you been taking any new vitamins or supplements?”
“Not exactly,” I tell her, producing the creams and explaining everything. She shook her head upon inspecting them, placing them in her drawer.
“The active ingredients on here aren’t even listed,” she sighed. “I can’t let you leave with these, and I’m ordering a full run of your bloodwork to rule out any other possible problems with you.”
Terrified, I agreed to comply with her every order. When the phlebotomist entered the room and started a line, she jumped back upon the first spurt of my blood that entered the vial; to her horror, as well as mine, it was the same sickening shade of neon pink that my sweat and stool had taken on. Apologizing, she hastily finished sampling my blood and volunteered to me that it would soar to the top of the lab’s list for testing. I thanked her for the favor and left, a rock of nerves weighing heavy in the pit of my stomach.
Throughout the weeks that followed, my freshman year of college ended and I heard no word from the lab. I noticed that every time I tried to tan, my skin would feel as if it was being set on fire after a few minutes and I’d have to find shade to seek relief. I grew increasingly worried that I’d permanently injured myself, and quickly picked up the phone when I got a call from the lab that was supposed to have contacted me much earlier. The receptionist confirmed my name before e-mailing me my results.
To my mortified revulsion, every one of my numbers was wildly below or above its healthy range. My doctor called me minutes after I had read the results, telling me to drive straight to the E.R. for intensive care. I felt fine, and there’s only one place I was going.
SculptMe had sold me a lie, and maybe they’d damaged Sophie just as badly. She was as much of a victim of their hype as I was, but that didn’t excuse her role in poisoning insecure young women. I needed answers, and I called her to get them.
“Hey,” I piped up when she answered the phone in a tone of mock sweetness. “I love the creams!”
“Yay!” she excitedly chirped in response. “I took the final step, and I feel, like, totally fantastic!”
“Oh my God! Do you think I’m ready?”
“Totally, babe, you’re ready if you’ve used both creams. It’s time you get that tour I promised you!”
“It is,” I sweetly responded, rolling my eyes. “Send me the addy and I’ll head over.”
“See ya soon, hun,” she replied before hanging up and messaging me the address of her office.
It was situated in a tall, glassy business complex near the top floor. As I entered the lobby, I had to tamper my horrified reaction as I laid eyes on the receptionist.
Her features reflected the overhead fluorescents, a plastic sheen in place of where skin should have been. Every blink of her eyes looked almost mechanical in their movement, and I could’ve sworn that her eyeballs were made of… glass. Glass eyes and a plastic face, as if she were the product of a twisted marketing ploy to sell Barbies. She turned her empty gaze to me, the corners of her lips stretching into a forced smile.
“Hi,” she chirped, her rehearsed tone dripping with faux delight. “You’re Sohpie’s friend, right?”
“Yes,” I grinned, regaining my composure a little. “I’m here for the final step.”
“Awesome! Yeah, she’ll give you the tour and help you look just like me. You’ll be so much happier,” she hummed. “It’ll change your life forever.”
I felt my heart beat a mile a minute, every instinct of mine telling me to run. I would’ve, too, were my friend not under the spell of this sinister corporation. My heart sank when I saw Sophie, her body mutilated even more than when I had last seen her. Her legs and arms were stick thin, yet somehow managed to not look bony. She had the same artificial appearance as the receptionist, and the life from her eyes had been siphoned as well.
“Hey, girly!” she smiled, hugging me. She felt frail in my arms, and I took care not to squeeze at all as I returned her embrace.
“Hey,” I smiled. “Why don’t we grab lunch again before the tour? I’m starving.” My plan was to escape with her and call 911. Whatever was happening to these poor girls couldn’t have been legal, and the truth needed to be uncovered.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” she assured me, leading me behind a frosted glass door and into a cubicle room. “You’ll feel even better at lunch after the treatment, I promise.” I reluctantly followed, scanning the room for any potential threats. Every one of the girls working at their desks had the same horrifyingly plastic aesthetic, and it was only then did I realize the enormity of what I was up against. I overheard one girl complain to another that the delivery guy accidentally brought both diet and regular Coke, and that they’d just have to give away the regular version to clients who “hadn’t gotten to the final step yet.”
Once the tour concluded, Sophie brought me a jar of the peach cream. “Ready to take the next step? It’s a one time, all body application and then you’ll look like us!”
I knew I couldn’t take on a room full of these things by myself if they tried to force this poison onto me, so I hatched a plan. “Could you be in the room with me while I do it? It’s a big step, and you’ve always been there for every one of my big milestones. I’d love it if you could be with me for this, too.”
Having bought the lie hook, line, and sinker, she nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Absolutely, I’d love to be there for you when you do this.” She led me to a bathroom, where she distractedly scrolled on her phone as I began to strip for the “treatment.” Upon completely disrobing, I furtively slid behind her and put her into a chokehold in one swift motion.
Sophie had the strength of a man twice her size, almost managing to pry my arm away from her neck. Whatever this “final step” did, it greatly increased her strength and endurance. Her skin loudly squelched under mine, making the squeaking noises you’d hear if you rubbed your finger on a slick plastic surface the right way. I used all of my strength to take her down, wrapping my legs around her waist from behind before she finally passed out. Unsure how long she’d be out, I quickly changed into her clothes to avoid suspicion long enough to escape.
Every head in the room swiveled towards the restroom door as I shut it behind me. “She’s an unworthy personality!” one girl shouted, prompting the entire room to drop what they were doing and stand from their cubicles. A swarm of angry, glassy eyes glared at me, and girls began to block my possible routes of escape. I miraculously spotted the office kitchen and ran towards it, tackling a couple of “girls” on my way. I figured that the regular Coke would be there, and - much to my relief - cases of bottles sat stacked on the floor.
Shaking one of the bottles, I sprayed it at the horde of girls who were rushing towards me. They all immediately jumped away, their expressions shifting from anger to fear. I smirked and strode forward, spraying the crowd again. A few drops landed on one of them as she ran away, dissolving her skin and causing a trickle of pink blood to run down her shiny calf. She yelped in pain as it landed on her, and all of the girls stood menacingly at the exits.
“You’re not leaving until you complete the final step,” one of the girls shouted. “We don’t need to eat anymore, we can stand here, like, all day.”
“Listen to yourself,” I replied. “You’re all sick, you need help.”
“We’re healed,” another girl cried. “We’re the best we can be, and you just can’t see that ‘cause you’re an unworthy personality. If you really were a boss babe, you’d understand,” she continued, “but you aren’t and never will be.” Cheers of agreement erupted from the mob, and I was given no other choice: if they wouldn’t let me leave, I’d have to fight my way out.
Grabbing a large tote bag from the nearby counter, I shoved it full of unopened sodas before arming myself with the one I’d already opened. I vigorously shook it and sprayed a pathway through the creatures who charged at me as I made my way to the door I had came through. It dissolved their skin, giving way to pink musculature, gore, and blood as they collapsed to the floor. One of them managed to grab me by the shoulders, prompting me to stick a bottle in her mouth and pour it down her throat. It immediately left through a tear in her stomach, the brown cola mixing with her hot pink intestines just before she fell and began to seize. Sophie backed away from the horde, tears streaming down her face as she watched what she’d helped build come crashing down. I fought my way through and sprinted to the elevator, immediately calling the police and reporting the emergency.
Months of strain took their toll as I fought the urge to collapse, my ravaged body unable to cope with the amount of physical engagement I had put it through. My skin began to slough off under my clothes, and agony seized me as chunks of my flesh began falling away from me. Tears streamed down my face as the reality of my fate set in, but I told myself I could die with a clear conscience if all of this came to light somehow.
Instead of the police arriving, a series of black vans swarmed the entrance as I painfully limped out of the building. Pools of pink blood soaked the white blouse I wore, and my very skin felt as if it was being boiled by my body heat. I was put on a stretcher and immediately cared for by medics in hazmat suits as agents wearing the same outfits stormed the building with what appeared to be assault rifles and flamethrowers. A mirror stretched across the surface of the van’s interior, and I blankly stared at myself as they cut my clothes off to tend to my wounds. My skin was pale, and pink patches of exposed bone, muscle, and organs riddled my mangled body. I passed out shortly thereafter, my body having fully succumbed to the pain and exhaustion.
A team of doctors stood over me as I awakened, and I looked to the IV in my arm to see that my blood was crimson again.
“You’re lucky to be alive, ma’am,” the eldest of them said as he looked over a chart. “We don’t know exactly what was in your blood that made it turn that color, but all of your organs were being simultaneously poisoned from the inside out. If you hadn’t been brought in when you were, you might not be here.”
“My skin,” I weakly recalled aloud. “How bad is it?” His expression remained solemn, preparing me for the incoming blow.
“There are reconstructive procedures that will help,” he offered, “but you will never look the same again. Just worry about getting plenty of fluids and eating all you can, and your abdomen should return to its normal size within a few days.”
“The cream I used,” I reminded him. “Is it being investigated?”
“As we speak,” he assured me. “There are a couple of agents who’d like to speak to you about what happened, if you feel up to it.” I nodded in assent, too tired to expend more energy than I had to.
Two large men who identified themselves as FBI agents walked into my room and began questioning me about how I became familiar with SculptMe to begin with and how I discovered the location of their office building. According to what they told me, it was under investigation by the FTC for months following quiet accusations of reported pyramid scheme activities and plans to pump and dump their stock. Their name came across the FBI’s desk when rumors of toxic, illegal chemicals being imported into their building became pervasive, and they had enough evidence to dissolve the company and destroy their chemical recipes thanks to my efforts.
As a reward for my vigilance and a guarantee of my silence, I was offered the liquidated worth of the company’s assets in exchange for my public silence. I agreed, wishing only to put the horrors I experienced behind me. Though the girl who I met in that office was no longer my friend, I had to know what happened to her.
“What happened to Sophie Adamson?” I weakly inquired, looking between them. “She was an employee, and I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s classified, ma’am,” I was bluntly told. “You’ll get a check from us before you leave the hospital.”
Following my hospitalization, I dropped out of school and moved back home with my parents where I live as I write this now. I don’t know what I’ll do with the money, but it’s enough to start a new life somewhere close to home.
Officially, the office suffered an electrical fire that tragically killed everyone inside. I know the truth, though, and - whatever else that poison may have done to me - it didn’t make me insane.
Take it from me: if one of your girlfriends is promoting a hot new product she’s just begging you to try, think twice before you jump in.