Beauty

Dear World,

In your eyes:

I am not beautiful. I am not perfect. I am not standard.

I stand at 6'4...far above the average for a woman.

I weigh 185lbs...far heavier than you want me to be.

I am blonde...but without blue eyes.

My hair is wavy...not curly or straight.

My nose is too big.

My cheekbones too high.

I wear glasses.

I carry weight on my thighs and hips.

My feet are big.

My torso too long.

My legs too long.

Big palms, short fingers.

The list could be endless based on the things that you define as beautiful. I can stand in front of a mirror and hate myself based on all these traits and features that you say are wrong, and that make me an ugly duckling.

But I don't. I DON'T. I choose to find the beauty in all these features because they are what makes me ME. I accept that I am different, because I celebrate that I have been made this way.

No matter what kind of punishing exercise I put myself through, I will never be able to change the skeletal frame I was given, and the shape that it gives me. I will choose to stay fit, but I won't kill myself to look like my skeleton.

I can't change the shape of my eyes, or the height of my cheekbones, the length of my nose. I can't change my height, and I wouldn't want to. I like being able to reach the top shelf of things ;).

Why does beauty have to be standard? Why should women bow to what you want? And what made you the expert? Why should I blindly accept the standards you lay before me as truth? Why do we kill ourselves to become what you want us to become?

I don't think it's us that need changing. I think it's you. I think you need to step back and evaluate your standards of beauty, because yours are so skewed. But you won't. And that's the sad part. You will continually shove your UNATTAINABLE STANDARDS upon the world. And people will continually strive to meet these expectations. But not me, I'm stepping out.

I know that I may not be beautiful to you, but I am beautiful to me. I love my quirks. I cherish my body. I accept who I am. So I don't need you or your approval. I've got my own.

My dear dear friends who choose to read this:

Celebrate who you are. It's all you've got. Know that I find you beautiful no matter what.

So world, you carry on being unattainable. I'll be who I am.

Who am I? You should fear me, because I know and understand that:

I AM BEAUTIFUL.

Morning

She wakes on the floor, the blood and poison congealed and sticky on the floor. Her fingers have blisters from where they came in contact with the poison. Her hair is thick with blood where she slept. Her elbow is red and inflamed; the skin tight with the healing it was permitted to do over night. Her movements are slow and laboured, her breathing shallow. A cold, bitter laugh fills her ears. She lifts her head and sees the face from across the hall. Her heart contracts with fear, yet he does not approach. He merely continues to laugh. She pushes herself to sitting and stares at the repulsive face. The laugh becomes increasingly mocking, and he holds out his arms to her. Thousands of scars line his arms, and she can see the black marks of poison barbs still buried under his skin. He continues to laugh as he points at himself, and then at her. She shakes her head and begins to cry, and his laugh increases. Enraged she tries to stand up. He merely laughs and leaves the room. She screams in defiance at his prediction and staggers into the hall. She pounds on his door until her hands are raw and bleeding. Adrenaline spent, she collapses. She closes her eyes. She feels the itch beginning in her elbow again. She tries to resist the urge to scratch, but gives in. She hears the laughter ringing in her ears once more and she despairs. Two guards approach and bring her to her room. She collapses in bed, hearing nothing but the cold, empty laugh echoing in her head.

The Ocean

Eve rubbed her shoulders already sore from the pack she carried. The scorching sun beat down on her relentlessly and her face dripped with sweat. They had left shortly after breakfast, the task of finding the new caskets an ever-driving force behind the band of angels. Josiah led her and two other angels with great speed, the urgency to get to the coast as soon as possible his mission. They were three days away from the southern most tip of the coast. Eve had not seen the ocean since the year of her awakening. She could still remember the salty breeze blowing through her long blonde hair. The smell had invigorated her and she had run full tilt into the waves. She had screamed her joy with the birds that had flown overhead, laughter had bubbled out of her and the sun had beamed down, showering her with its radiant light. She remembered the sun kissing her cheeks, its warmth rushing through her. She had never felt so alive. Her first month of awakening had been glorious. She had spent every day discovering the brilliance of Shepard’s creations, yet the ocean had always been her favourite. She smiled to herself as Josiah sped his pace even more. She was anxious as well, to put the incident with the new ones behind her, and to awaken even more.

“Josiah!” Eve called, “Do you remember the first time you and Elijah took me to the ocean?”

Josiah laughed and called back, “How could I forget? You frightened half the wildlife when the first wave caught you,”

“In all our time together, I never asked why the coast seems so safe. Why don’t the destroyers like the ocean?”

“The salt, it purifies, cleanses. Their skin can barely tolerate the breeze when it blows the water across the sand. Elijah once told me of a demon who had been pursuing him from the fields near the water. As Elijah ran across the beach, the demon followed, and when the breeze blew, the demon began shrieking. Elijah ran to the water, the beast still pursuing. At the very moment the water came into contact with the demon, shrieks and steam filled the air as the skin burned to the bone. It kept pursuing him however, and it disintegrated,”

“They really are determined to kill us all, aren’t they?”

“Yes, the destroyers find demons dispensable, so they will send out as many to their deaths in order to see their means fulfilled,”

“So, why don’t we camp down here more often? Why are more outposts not set up here? Why do we make ourselves vulnerable?”

Josiah stopped and turned to face Eve, “It is just as dangerous to maintain a position we think is impenetrable. We would never be able to leave; they would surround us, knowing they have the upper hand. As supplies run low, we would risk the angels and humans lives to get a hold of more. Having camps spread out throughout the territory is far safer. The destroyers can’t pinpoint our location,” he paused, “what may seem like a position of strength can often be a weakness, we cannot allow ourselves to relax in comfort, for that can often be a deception as well,” he turned back around and began walking again.

Night

As she screams she scratches more and more at the crook of her arm. She pulls and tugs at the sharp object through the burning in her veins. What had seemed like pain before was a mere shadow of the intensity that touching the object brings. Her breathing has increased to hyperventilation, and she can feel the oxygen leaving her brain. She tries to calm her breathing, yet it is an exercise in futility. She continually rips at her arm to rid herself of the pain. Warm blood leaks from her arm to the floor. It smells like metal and she begins to dry heave. She feels consciousness slipping from her, and she vaguely feels her head hit the floor, her face wet as it comes into contact with her blood. As if controlled by its own impulse, her hand continues to scratch and tear at her skin, eager to rid itself of the foreign entity that is causing so much pain. Her brain continues to fight through the pain, and finally she feels the object begin to give. Her breathing slows and she takes a deep breath and pulls out the object. She closes her eyes and waits for the pain to recede. Her brief time inside this institution has taught her that if she is patient with the pain, it will disappear faster. She feels herself returning to normality and she begins to sit up. The blood on the floor and her face is sticky from the exposure to the air. Her hair is matted to her head with a mixture of blood and sweat. She gazes down at the object. It is as black as pitch. Three inches in length, it is sharp at both ends. She leans down for a better look and is immediately repulsed by the smell it is emitting. She cannot pinpoint the smell. It reminds her of rotting leaves and stale pond water. She stares at it in fascination. It begins to disintegrate in front of her. Black liquid pours out from within, hissing as it comes into contact with the pool of blood. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she touches the liquid. She draws her hand back quickly as her fingers are singed by the liquid, her fingerprints gone from the acidity. Poison. One solitary poison barb within her skin. How many more could there be she wondered. Where did they come from? How could she get rid of them, when ripping them from her body caused her thrice the pain? She sits back and weeps as the adrenaline drains from her body. Screams still staccato through the night, and she wonders if others are pulling barbs as sharp and poisonous from their skin. 

Day 3

She is fed up. The constant waking and falling back asleep. The almost indescribable attacks that send every nerve on edge. She scratches a vague itch in the crook of her elbow and surveys her room once more. It is all the same, yet the door is open to the sterile white hall. She musters the energy to get up and walk out the door. Once in the hall she looks from left to right. At least 20 doors are visible, and she can hear faint but tortured moans muffled from the rooms in the immediate vicinity. She quickly moves away from the door that she knows hides the repulsive face to search out anyone else that isn’t being kept in their room. As she walks down the hall she continues to scratch her arm absentmindedly. She comes to a large room at the end of the hall that seems to be a common area. Tables and chairs that have been nailed to the floor are placed in a random pattern throughout the room. Large shatterproof bay windows overlook magnificent gardens with lush flowers and trees. A lake or pond shimmers in the sun. It holds the peace that seems to be absent within the walls. She settles herself down on the chair closest to the window and just stares at the peonies that droop over stoned pathways winding through the trees. Her hand rhythmically relives the itch that won’t dissipate. She sits for hours, blocking out the moans and occasional screams that penetrate the silence. No one bothers her. Whoever keeps pumping her full of drugs has let her be. Her eyes trace the clouds that lazily puff across the sky. The sun moves from high in the sky and slips lower and lower to the water. The sky becomes a riot of colour and her mind captures as many snapshots of the beauty as possible. She stands and walks back to her room, exhausted from her day of inactivity. Her hand continues to scratch, and when she stumbles into her bed, she feels wet warmth on her arm. She looks down to see that she has scratched away a decent amount of her skin. Underneath she sees something black and sharp protruding from the skin. As she touches it in fascination, heat explodes in her heart and her scream adds to the rising chorus throughout the halls.

Dreaming

“She’s one of the worst we’ve seen Rapha, the poison is so entrenched in her heart, surely there can be no hope for one so toxic, her blood is thick with it. The barbs are sharp. She cannot hope to survive the treatment” 

“There is never anyone beyond hope, show her. Lead her dream” 

The skeleton eyes have been chasing her through the forest. Dead and broken trees continually try to slow her progress and prevent her escape. She runs and runs, her breathing irregular and laboured; how long has she been running? Her heart pounds faster and faster. Fear is driving her to run; yet she cannot move fast enough. She looks behind her and the bloody gums are still smiling at her. She trips and falls to the ground, her adrenaline spent, she cannot move. She hears the breathing, can sense the eyes staring at her. She curls into a ball and covers her face with her hands. The breathing draws closer and closer, the hot breath rustling her hair. A cold hand reaches out and forces her hands down. She shuts her eyes tight. A soft chuckle fills her ears and she begins to cry from fear. She feels a cool sensation run over her body, and the breathing of the creature is gone. Hesitantly she opens her eyes. She is alone in the forest. There is a light further down the path, and she crawls towards it. She emerges into a sunny clearing. Dazzling blue skies surround the oasis. She looks back and sees the path to the dead forest closing. She can feel the peaceful rest the soft green grass beckons her towards. Yet her heart is unsettled. She does not feel easy here either. She walks forward to something that is shimmering in front of her. Soft bulrushes surround a perfectly round and clear pond decorated with large pink water lilies. The smell is heavenly. She sits by the pond and lies back, staring at the puffy white clouds. Her heart is pounding still. Her nerves are on edge. There is something about this place that is making her uneasy. She sits up and dips her toes in the water. She leans forward to look at her reflection. She screams and thrashes away from the water. She feels something sharp enter her arm, and she floats away from the clearing. Her dreams become hazy and unfocused and her sleep becomes restful. 

“I told you Rapha. She may not be strong enough”

Afternoon

Her heart is racing. Fear is pounding through her veins anticipating another attack. The floor is cold and hard; every movement causes pain to dart from her head to her feet. With extreme hesitation, she pushes herself into a sitting position. Her heart skips a beat, then another, then another. She takes a deep breath in and steadies the pulse. She sits for a moment, and then slowly gets to her feet. She steps forward to the door and looks out the window. A face appears in the door window opposite her. The face is haggard. Deep purple bruises mar the skin under the eyes. The sockets are defined by the emaciation that is evident. The lips are dry and cracked, the skin red around the mouth from a tongue hoping to provide some moisture. The hair is wispy and white. She recoils from the window and takes another deep breath. When she looks back, the face is smiling maniacally with a mouth devoid of teeth, the gums spongy looking and bleeding. She feels the burn of vomit and turns and retches all over the floor. She pounds on the door in an effort to scare the face away. She hates the face. It is grotesque and repulsive. As she pounds at the door her heart fills with another wave of heat. Her chest tightens and her pulse skitters out of control. She sits in an attempt to stave off the barrage of pain. It is no use. She feels her body stiffen as arrows of agony radiate from her heart. The heat builds and builds until she feels as though her heart will turn to ash. She screams over and over, tears streaming down her face in confusion and utter incomprehension. As the wave of pain subsides, she hears the metallic door open and footsteps approach her. She has the sensation of being carried, and she feels the softness of the bed envelop her. Her ears are pounding with aftershock. She hears murmurs and the door closing, the smell of her vomit no longer present. She closes her eyes and drifts to sleep, visions of bloody gums and skeleton eyes to haunt her into the night.