Ugly

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a/n: Originally posted this on Fictionpress in October 2009. Man, this short story is over seven years old. You can find it here. It is a sad one.


Ugly

She’s beautiful. The epitome of all ravishing beauty. No, no, she specifically personifies beauty and, and, and–strength, oh, that inhumane glorious power tingling in those delicate, smooth fingers.

Don’t stare. It’s rude.

Her hair tumbles down her back in soft curls, each twisted into unprecedented perfection. The light brown meets midnight black, melts into a stream of reflected sunlight and disappears completely into the shiniest of burns. They finally end at mid-back.

When will she realize how slim and petite she is? Will she ever? Smooth porcelain skin, devoid of scars and scabs and all things bad. It glimmers slightly in the iridescent beam.

Backbone straight, so straight she’s rigid. And yet, she’s elegant, like she was born to stand. Oh, how impossible it is for her to see.

That you don’t want to get the best sweets.

Her waist is tiny; she could form a ring with her hand around it. Her bare legs are endless, toned and then soft. Her ankles roll like waves in a clear sea. Her nails are light pink, like baby’s breath in a winter wonderland.

Her hands are those of a pianist. There are no wrinkles. There is only an endless road, with light at the end, and light all around, and light at the beginning, and –

What about the darkness?

But there isn’t any.

Her skin is so warm, so warm, and it’s hard to touch. She could burn you. But, no, she’s not fire, and you’ll soon realize she’s also cold.

Her lips are thin and fit her face, a rose petal garden. The light plays in its pond and brings them to life. It’s almost unreal. Her nose is tiny, rounded at the tip and angular at the sides. Her cheeks are dusted the smallest of whites. And, oh, behold – her eyes!

A collective gasp is drawn by the audience.

The green drags you in, lulls you to sleep in its strangling depths. They capture you, refuse to release you. The flecks of sky blue, and sea blue, and flower blue wink at you. But you also have to contend with the light purple, and the sparkling violet, and the dim grey. The plethora is startling.

Black.

It rips you apart.

And it’s clouding over.

It’s racing across–

No, no, it was never there.

Look at you.

She turns and she sees me staring back at her. My hands move at the same time as hers, pushing forward, reaching the cold glass. I see the fats dripping off my cheekbones, the all too blatant mole on her chin, the smattering of pimples just above my left eyebrow. Looking down, I see mountains and layers of chips, ice cream, hamburgers, the brutal, corpulent oil running in bloody streaks. She notices them too. And, for a moment, I can almost pretend.

But she ruins it!

Her lips contort madly, as if attacked by a sudden force, and they spasm. We hear a guttural growl, but there’s no one else in the room. Her teeth, all fake, all cosmetically altered, peek through the now bleeding lips. She reaches forward, scratching my face. I can’t move. All I can do is watch, letting the pain dissolve my face. The glass breaks, and she vanishes from sight, and I’m relieved.

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling the outline of the bones fighting their way out of my skin.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

She sinks down to the cold, unforgiving floor, holding herself tightly, drawing her legs in as if making herself smaller will erase the pain. Her nails dig into my skin. Her eyes are clenched shut, blocking my worthless salty rain; her hands scratch her skin, tearing it, breaking it; her feet curl up against the hard ground, begging; and yet, all she thinks, all she feels is that unbearable urge, the pesky itch, growing, infesting her throat. The bees buzz in her ears, getting closer. And then they turn into wasps.

Ignore it.

But it’s too late. She’s crawled over to the fountain, ripped out her throat with those powerful, glowing fingers, and all she can see is the green and the brown and the red and the yellow… It’s too little.

The acid reaches her nostrils.

And I see how truly ugly, how completely revolting I am – she is.

You’re ugly.

Fin.

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