Real Beauty

“Yeah, your personality is fine, not gonna lie, baby. But your body is even finer!”, he confessed, his eyes full of physical desire.

That’s one cut.

She yells in pain as the knife glides along her skin. But she doesn’t seem to be so bothered. She keeps crying out her internal pain. The physical one isn’t strong enough to make the mental one go away.

“You’re so beautiful, honey!”, another guy was telling her, as his breath was becoming heavier and she was feeling his pulse accelerate. ‘This isn’t one of those sweet compliments’, she thought to herself. ‘This is getting sexual. But I like it.’

‘Actually, I don’t. Not anymore.’

That’s another cut.

Hot tears streaming down her face, she reaches out a bleeding hand to grab the bottle of whiskey in front of her. There are approximately two more sips in it. She laughs shortly. She doesn’t remember how long it took her to empty that bottle. But apparently, she almost did. She takes a sip. And then she puts the bottle right back on the floor, where she took it from, having something added up to it: blood around its neck. It looks pretty much aesthetic.

“Shit, you’ve got that body and you’re telling me you’re underage??? Girl, I’d say you’re 20 or so!”

“Well, thanks for the compliment. But I’m 17…”

“Ohh… I see… then, I’m sorry little one… But I guess we’ll have to part ways.”

And that’s another cut.

For another jerk.

And another scream.

Not a scream of pain, though… a scream of rage. A growl.

Not giving a damn about the amount of blood that she is losing, she grabs the knife harder this time and begins sliding it around her thighs, making small, straight, short scratches one next to another, from the knee upwards to her hips.

Then she throws the knife away and growls again.

“If you only want me for this piece of shit that you call ‘a hot as hell body’, let’s see how much you’ll want me now, you FUCKERS!”, she shouts from the bottom of her lungs, not able to contain her rage anymore. She is feeling so fed up with being objectified, seen as a sex tool, not as a fucking person. So she scars her body, because she is curious.

Curious to feel the pain. Curious to feel the blade twist beneath her skin. Curious to see if anyone would ever want her with those scars. Curious to see how many people would push her away and think of her as being gruesome, instead of seeing her real beauty– which, of course, consists of her mentality and personality, not of something that can be as easily cut and degraded as paper.

She makes a considerable effort to place her trembling fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle and lift it off the floor, put it to her mouth and swallow whatever alcohol was left inside the bottle. Her throat still burning, she gets up to her feet, losing her balance a little bit. After a few seconds, regaining her steadiness, she targets the wall in front of her and, without even thinking, she throws the bottle with as much strength as she’s capable to summon at this moment. The bottle smashes to thousands of pieces that are now scattered on the floor, everywhere around her. Still standing, in the middle of the glistening pieces of broken glass, she thinks of how the bottle represents a metaphorical comparison to her soul: emptied by someone and then shattered. Or a metaphorical comparison to her body: bloody and destroyed.

Not able to resist the urge to see her newest masterpiece, she starts running over the broken glass, again not giving a fuck about how the tiny pieces are stabbing at her feet. Her direction is set towards the bathroom, to the biggest mirror in her house. She is taking off her clothes and throws them away as she climbs the stairs, leaving bloddy footprints behind her. Now naked, she opens the bathroom door and then stops dead in her tracks, staring at the mirror on the opposite wall.

“Damn, this is bad!”, she whispers under her breath. Below her breasts, on the stomach, there was a long, trembled dark-red line. There was blood dripping from one of her thighs and from around her collarbone, where she had made a diagonal cut. She is thinking of her body as a chevalet at this point. Blood was the only paint she had available on stock.

No matter how horrifying it might look from the outside, she likes the updated version of her body. She feels satisfied at the thought that she will no longer have the opportunity to fall in love with someone who only wants her for her body and abandons her as soon as they find out that they can’t have it.

She smiles, content with her choice.

And then she moves to the sink to take out some bandages.

Published by patryswritings

I am a reader, a writer and a dreamer. I like to believe that I am really good at the first and last thing. However, I don't think that I am the best person to say how good I am at writing. Which is why I'm looking everywhere for feedback. :)

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