Ugly

I awoke in a house that I felt I had known before. I was invisible, however this I only sensed. I heard whispers and turned a corner to see two young girls, pinkies locked. The slightly blonder of the two whispered, “We will never get married, we will never grow boobs, and we will never kiss a boy.” The other’s green eyes lit up and she giggled, “And if we do grow boobs, we cut them off.” A smile radiated across her face and they released pinkies, content with their innocent, yet sadistic promise. They would not keep these promises. I wondered why I cared. They then stood up and dashed out the door, cutting through me like I was nothing. Someone, or something, began to stick me with what seemed to be a million needles. And then everything went black. Panic took over. I threw my head back, jaw wide, ready to scream - and I was launched. Writhing through a mess of flashing lights, distorted faces, objects, places, that I did not recognize.

And then it was over. My eyes flew open. I again, was in the dark. However this time, I was on a turf field. I was not alone. A girl with an athletic build stood not twenty feet away from me. Tears emanated from her bright green eyes as she drilled a soccer ball against a white, flimsy net. She repeated this until she fell to the ground, sobbing into her knee. The scene was an award worthy film composition, as she cried under the exaggerated luminosity of the high school soccer field lights. Nervously, she twisted her head, throwing me off guard as she caught me watching. Blood did not rush to my cheeks, as it usually did whenever anyone so much as glanced at me. I wanted to know why she was crying, and she told me. No language was exchanged. Her eyes melted into mine; dripping down my zygomatic and onto what I thought must be my tongue. I could taste it. She had just found out that she had injured herself enough to never be allowed to play again. I wanted to have hope for her, but one could smell the defeat as it gushed from her pores and the devil breathed it in, like the aroma of a fine wine.

And then again, I was gone. I was at a party. It felt like I wasn’t really there. Déjà vu swept over me, and the girl from the field appeared almost magically from a room I assumed to be the bathroom. She was different. Her makeup was overdone and her hair straight as a pin. Her boobs were being helped by an obvious push up bra. Her eyes were duller than before. She glanced longingly at a boy rolling a blunt at the kitchen counter. He smiled at her. Her face lit up. I hated her. Before I could take in another second, I was pulled from this scenario to another. It was late morning, must have been years later. And there she was again. She was in the bathroom of a boy’s dorm, staring narcissistically at herself in the mirror. Her face was ridden with sores, and had a pale green highlight throughout her cheeks. She didn’t seem to notice. She only sees what she wants to see. She smiled at herself before she pulled down her pants and peed. I wondered if it burned.

I left that bathroom to find myself in another one. There she was again, but this time she did not smile. She was emotionless, on drugs that she did not consent to. A boy was on top of her, then he was inside her, and for the first time I could hear her thoughts. In her head she was praying that he would stop, that he would read her emotionless face as a sign that this was not consensual. I could feel her soul beating against the confines of her body, begging to be released, to be absent for this. I wanted to scream for her, I wanted to kill him. I was shocked at the passion this had evoked in me. I did not know I could feel these things. I watched as he came in her and left her there; drooling on herself as she stayed slumped between the toilet and the wall. When she awoke, she would tell no one.

I got out of there as fast as I could, only to find myself staring at her again, as she lay in her bed. She looked peaceful, skin icy and white, a smile snug on her face, hands resting on her chest. A rash had taken over her neck, sores oozing phallic, repugnant fluids. Her heart was no longer beating. Her roommate picked up a crushed can of beer and held it up, as if she was making some sort of point. She told her corpse it was disgusting, and continued to mumble amongst no one, until falling asleep. I laid down next to the lifeless body, and ran my fingers gently through silky strands of golden hair. The moon was shining through the blinds, laying horizontal beams of light across her face, which now resembled that of a fragile porcelain doll. I kissed her lightly on the cheek; her skin was cold and empty. As I pulled my lips from her I began to detach, the distance between us growing as I faded away. I wanted to plead with God to give her a second chance, though I knew he would not. See, God only gives second chances to those who want it, to those who when tied mercilessly to a train track would gnaw through the rope with their teeth, and in a mess of sweat and tears rise from the tracks and push themselves with every last bit of strength into the dirt on the side. She was the kind to lay on the tracks and wonder why she was ever born, heart beat slowing as she begins to realize that the only way she's getting out of there is if someone comes to save her, if God were to intervene. But God would not intervene as she lay there, a victim of the life he had given her, a victim of all those who had run through her, cutting up her insides and spirit as the train would, as if she was never even there. There was a shock where my heart should have been and I felt that if I could cry, I would be right now. But that did not matter, and as I thought of the little girl who radiated all things innocent and all things pure, I realized that no matter how many times I ask God why so many good, sensitive people live such hideous lives, he would never answer.