Ruined Beauty

From my high school creative writing class.

I gaze upon my former patron’s sanctuary at least once a week. Maybe out of my own misery, maybe out of remembrance. It holds most of its former beauty, yet it seems darker now, as if whatever magic had once possessed the place had abandoned it. I can spot one of the girls I used to work with greeting a visitor as they approach, but they both disappear inside, and I’m left gazing at the building’s lonely frame. After a while, I cannot bear to see the emptiness of the columns anymore, so I retreat back into the hills. 

The damp stone walls of my dwelling place remind me of my pain, because like me, they may have once been beautiful, but are now marred by scratches and mold. However, they,  like my pain, protect me from persecutors.

I place a hand on my swollen stomach and realize I need to gather dinner. 

I’m still wearing my headscarf from my trip to see the sanctuary, so I know no one will recognize me unless they truly know my face. “Keep your head down and try to blend in,” that’s what I tell myself.

I leave my home and cautiously make my way toward the bustling market. I’m uneasy as I enter the crowd of people, but none of them seem to pay any attention to me as I begin searching for a booth selling eggs or fish. 

I hear someone nearby talking about my banishment as their friend sings praises to the man who ruined me. I’ve learned not to let their gossiping sting too much. Every story has two sides, and not one soul has bothered to think that I was a victim.

I locate a vendor selling fresh fish and make my way to his stall. With my head still bowed, I point to the fish I want. The vendor tells me the price, and I pay him. The vendor tries to catch my eye, but I refuse to meet his gaze. 

“You seem like a pretty one,” he drawls. His voice reminds me of my former attacker, but I refuse to dwell on the thought. 

  I grab my fish and hurry to leave the marketplace before he can say another word. Despite the fact that there are few people near me, I feel a sense of dread hissing into my ear.

I’m almost out of the square when someone calls my name. I turn to see a small girl pointing at my headscarf. She freezes the second my gaze reaches her, but I run before anyone sees what I’ve done.

Anxiously, I try to tuck whatever hair has fallen out of the scarf back into place. I’m unwanted, I know that. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I don’t bother to prepare my meal; I just remove my headscarf, say a quick prayer, and allow it to be consumed raw as my misery overtakes me.

Every day is like this. Sometimes people don’t notice me, sometimes they do. It doesn’t matter; I’ve learned to live with my shame.

My eye catches a glimpse of myself in one of the shattered mirrors that leans against the wall. I had taken a rock to each glass surface in my home out of anger. Nevertheless, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. I gaze sadly at my mournful appearance. 

The features that once labeled me as a prize people wanted to win now mark me as the anomaly among my people. My fair skin and red lips had once been the envy of both women and men; I’d been chased and wanted, though I wanted nothing from them. Now my mouth looked blood-stained, and my skin made me look like I’d been carved from an ivory that matches my heart of stone. 

The tears in my green-grey eyes make me turn away before I get caught up in the past again.

That evening, I lay in the dry grass outside my home and studied the stars. I trace the lines for the Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Aries, and Orion constellations. On nights like this, I treat the stars like old friends. They’re always watching, and whenever I tell them of my sorrows, they blink down at me. They don’t shed light on the things I do; in fact, they barely shed enough light for me to see what I’ve done. 

Mid-morning comes, and someone shouts my name, startling me awake.

I run back to my cave and press my back against the back wall, silently begging my former employer to send me help. The unknown warrior enters my home and calls my name again. I’m trembling in my hiding spot, the child inside me kicking at the walls of my belly. When I see the intruder’s face, I recognize him as my former harasser’s nephew. The boy’s father must have shared the same jawline and eye color as his brother had because the resemblance his son bears is blatantly that of one who shares his genetics. 

The intruder looks at me through a reflective surface, smirks, and raises his sword.

---------------

“So how did you slay the witch?” they ask him as he sips on wine. 

“I waited until she got consumed with her reflection,” he smirks. “And then severed her head with my sword.” 

He didn’t mention the fact that her child had been born after her demise. He didn’t know.

“Let this day go down in history,” one of his friends says, raising his glass. “As the day Perseus killed Medusa.”