When the Camera's Aren't Rolling || Elizabeth Olsen x Child Star

Mirror, mirror, on the wall.

TUESDAY || JULY 20th || 2021

[2 weeks before the incident]

Elsie De Angelis' POV ~

A sharp metallic tang lingered in the air, prickling at the back of Elsie's throat. Her head felt heavy, strands of her hair plastered to her cheeks with a sticky, crimson substance. Red streaked her vision, her lashes weighed down by something that felt too thick, too real. Her breath came shallow and uneven, as though each inhale might betray the shudder lurking just beneath her ribs.

A window of glass was cut out of the wall in front of her, its surface blurred by a fog that curled languidly around the room and clung to her skin. Beyond it was another room, a perfect mirror of her own—down to the tiles, the sink, the steam-clouded atmosphere.

An arm extended on the other side of the glass just as hers moved, the timing precise, synchronized. Fingers hovered millimetres apart, their twin motions separated only by the fragile barrier between them. The illusion of reflection was flawless. They moved as one, wiping invisible condensation from the 'mirror' in front of them.

And then their eyes met.

Lizzie's scream tore through the air, sharp and visceral, as though it had clawed its way out of some deep, buried pain. The older actress reeled back, her face contorted with horror, her wide eyes staring at what shouldn't have been there. Elsie matched her perfectly, the reflection of Lizzie's fear rippling through her as though it were her own.

Identical movements followed. Both sets of hands flew to their hair, clutching at the roots as though trying to anchor themselves. Their wide, tear-brimmed eyes stayed locked, and their staggered, unsteady footsteps mirrored each other in a choreographed dance of desperation.

"No. No. No. No. No."

Lizzie's voice was raw, primal, a desperate plea that carried the weight of a fractured mind. On the other side of the glass, Elsie's lips formed the same words in perfect silence. She didn't speak, didn't make a sound—just as a reflection wouldn't—but the expression was there, a haunting echo of Chelsea's unravelling.

Lizzie shook her head, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if the act alone could erase the young, bloodied ghost of Chelsea's past from existence. But there was no escaping the cruel trick her mind was playing on her.

Elsie—and by extension, the younger Chelsea—stood in the mirror, a haunting, physical manifestation of a reflection that wasn't her own. Where Chelsea expected to see her 32-year-old self, the mirror instead mocked her with the image of the worst day of her life. Blood splattered the face of the terrified child staring back at her, wide-eyed with fear and disbelief. Every motion Chelsea made was mirrored with chilling precision by the girl she hadn't been in over 20 years. It wasn't just a reflection; it was a living memory, a tragedy she could never escape, brought back to life in vivid, unrelenting detail.

The room seemed to grow smaller as Lizzie backed away, her breath hitching in jagged gasps. Her trembling lips moved, forming words that Elsie couldn't quite hear, but the camera would. Elsie's mouth formed the words regardless, the syllables etched in her memory, though Lizzie's voice gave them a life and anguish that no script could convey.

Lizzie's back hit the wall, and her hands flew to her hair, pulling and clawing as her screams peaked and fractured into sobs. She slid down the wall, curling into herself, arms wrapping around bent knees as she crumbled. The moment was raw, broken.

On the other side of the glass, Elsie mirrored the collapse, her own back pressing against cold tiles. Her haunted expression, so carefully maintained, was veiled as her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. The air was thick with silence, broken only by Lizzie's ragged breathing.