Beautifully Twisted

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"Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it."

William Somerset Maugham

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She was one of the beautiful people. Every ounce of her glowing with perfection. It was a gift not everyone got when they were born. To be able to touch anything and be able to make it gold , to make anything look exactly like she wanted, to have anything at her feet. She's used to being treated like a princess to being able to close her eyes and being able to open them and see something that she might adore. She used to people always wishing that had her glossy black hair or her bejeweled-like jade-color eyes. She used to her parents using her as a trophy to brag about how they brought one of the most precious things and her family treated her as gently and fragile as a antique porcelain doll. She used to being admired and being played around with.

However her life was overshadowed by her self-loathing, self-pity, and wishing that she could be left alone.

In her eyes the "perfect" she was living, wasn't really perfect at all. It was way far from perfect: it was frigid and bitter, shallow and two dimensional, never thought out and artificial. She didn't like the life she was born into where people only look at you if you glimmer and stand out more than the stars of the milky way, where you look more prettier, more valuable that diamond that was worth millions. She didn't like the fact that more people were trying to get close to her, so they can feel the contrasting smoothness of her skin or the balance and fluffiness of her hair trying to figure how it could stay so still. She was only noticed for being beautiful and nothing else. They didn't know that she had wanted to have pimples or dry hair to be out of people's eyes and just be avoided. She just wanted to be known as herself.

Her refuge was found in photography, taking picture of things surrounding her being when nobody was around. She would take pictures of her razorblade cuts she had inflicted on herself when she was miserably fed up with life. She would take pictures of the ceiling she had detested for no apparent reasons. She took pictures of strands of her hair that she gently plucks out, but it was rare. She would take pictures of the razor she used to cut herself with and her pale face, never placing a smile on her dainty lips in her pictures. In most opinions these kinds of pictures would be considered sick, twisted, nothing in the norm. However she wasn't trying to be in the norm, she was just trying to express her feelings. A way for her to try to break free from the "distant world" as she knew as life.

She knew that masochism wasn't a thing that many people depended on as most thought life was as peachy keen for them. She knew that she could tell anybody, but most were more focused on what she looked like not what her problems were as when she wasn't alone, she would put on a false smile falsely indicating that everything was perfect as they would think and that she wasn't suffering. That her scars were caused by accident.

She was in the brink of break-down; she couldn’t find anyone that might take her out of the world.

Then she met Margaux.

Margaux wasn't pretty like her. Margaux was a little bit pudgy for a girl her age, had olive skin, and plain brown eyes. Margaux was distant like her but her distance was little different. Margaux, unlike her was slightly demented only thinking about make-believe most of the time. She was from the norm, she loved sitting alone at the table.

That's why Margaux was so close with her.

Margaux would like to take her into her world where they would pretend to be a certain kind of group in a place that they defined perfect.Margaux said that "A perfect place for me would be a place with wizards and fairies. A place where everyone is equal and treated the same. A place where everything in fantasy is real. What is your perfect place?"

She just shrugged her shoulders.

She had known that Margaux wanted an answer from her and she didn't what to say.

"I don't know."

Then she and Margaux played in their fantasy land where nothing could go wrong. Margaux would play something magical or factious like her alter-ego Edwina Edwards while the girl would play anyone she wanted from a fairy to a whore she would play it. The girl would let Margaux or "Edwina" as she was in called say anything while she would just look fragile and stay quiet even when Margaux wanted her to speak.

However even from Margaux's wandering she still kept her scars a secret. She didn't show Margaux any of her scars; she felt no one should know about it

Margaux had an idea one day "Let's admit or desires and our dreams. Our passions and dislikes. You first Jacqui."

Jacqui just mouthed out no.

"Please it's not hard to. I want to hear some things about you."

Jacqui said in a semi-quiet tone “I don't want to look beautiful. And my desire is to find someone who truly loves me and not just because of beauty."

Margaux fascinated by the answer ask "Why don't you? You get all the attention---"

"I don't like it."

"Everyone adores you---"

"Like an athlete would a trophy."

"I--love you."

Jacqui had to listen to those words again. Did Margaux mean she loved her? Or was it meant differently.

"What did you say?

"I love you."

She just panicked no one had ever said they loved her without faking it. The way Margaux said it sounded so real, so authentic that she wanted to give her a kiss but instead she just looked at Margaux taking one gasp and saying "I have scars."

"Scars? What kind?"

"Scars that go deep into the bone. Scars I want to erase, will you erase them Margaux, will you make them free? Oh please Margaux, please erase them. You're the very first person that said 'I love you' and meant it. Please erase my scars."

"Oh Jacqui." Said Margaux "I want to erase your scars, but I just can't help you. I mean I can some what but the rest is based on what you do. Not everything I do. I mean I saw some strange picture of you and you scars. Inner and outer with the scars on your body visible and the way you never smile or even smirk in any of your pictures. I mean the outer scars will go away on it's own but inner scars can go away too no matter how much you erase, there will always be a scar there."

"But, I don't want to be beautifiul. I don't want to be perfect."

"What you're doing is not beautiful at all. And the only kind that is perfect are angels. Sometimes I wish I was like sometimes and then I think to myself you may have it much worse than I..I pretend that you're getting abused by your parents or that your getting played around by most of the boys at school because you're so beautiful and they would enjoy being with a trophy like you. But then I think about how would you react to this. I wonder if you would be disgusted with me. I pretend that Edwina is popular like you, I pretend that I'm slender like you and that I'm popular and my opinons aren't so weird. I only made up that alter ego because I really want a membrant of you. Then when I met you, you were suffering much more than I. You were so fragile-like, so emotionally unstable when you're around me and it's a lie you use to cover up how much you're suffering. When I pretended to be you I was still caught up in my fantasy land. And then when I actually looked closer I didn't want to be you and I never wanted to be you.Still in my eyes you need help and I can give you refuge since everyone is more caught up on looks than anything else. But everyone in my eyes, now I see everyone is beautiful. Not everything, but everyone. That was what I was brought up to think since I'm always been pudgy and no one wanted someone plain looking. But you're beautiful."

Silence was only heard in the dimmed room.

"In a twisted way, though and that is what I love. And I'm twisted too I'll admit. But you make the definition so beautiful"

Margaux then gave her a gentle peck on the cheek.

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"She had gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was beautiful."

-Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit

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