Pretty Faces

PREFACE:

6 years old,

Blue ribbon, silk ribbon;

Streaming through my hair;

Pigtails, toothless smiles,

Mirror, am I pretty yet?

10 years old,

Ponytails, bobby pins;

Taming my messy hair;

Chubby thighs, crooked smile,

Mirror, am I pretty yet?

14 years old,

Straight hair, lipstick;

Mascara running down my face;

Trembling knees, broken smile,

Mirror, am I pretty yet?

16 years old,

Messy buns, chapped lips;

Sobbing eyes and bloody wrists;

Bony thighs, fake smiles,

Mirror, am I pretty yet?

JULIA MARTINEZ

CHAPTER ONE

I let the water hit me. The fast drizzling that came gushing down on my body. The shower is the only time all my imperfections, flaws and thoughts were washed away by the steaming water. I didn’t have to worry about anyone looking or judging me. It was when I didn’t feel anything; I was numb. I liked it that way. The worst part of it all was getting out, facing reality all over again, knowing nothing was really going to get better.

I eventually got dried myself and slipped on my underwear. The steamed condensed and little water droplets ran the mirror distorting my image. I avoided my eye contact in the reflective glass. But of course my instinctive behaviour got the better of me. I stared. Just stared at the girl who looked back at me; this was my ritual every morning. To stare, touch and perfect.

I emptied the contents of my “beauty bag” and stared. I picked up the red lipstick and stared at my lips. Maybe I’d be sexier if I painted my lips the colour of red roses in the summer. It’s way better than the plump peachy colour. I picked up the bottle of Maybelline mascara; maybe if my eyes were beautiful, I wouldn’t have to coat my eyes in thick layers of black mascara and kohl. I picked up the blush on the bathroom counter; maybe if my cheeks were flushed just like hers, he’d think I was as sweet as her. I stared at myself now, I liked what I saw. Was it so wrong to feel good with the mask on, no one could see how bad it was underneath.

I observed again, running my eyes up and down my figure. Still abnormally tall and thin; maybe if my chest wasn’t as flat, he would notice the beauty I failed to see. I wrapped the skirt I’d worn since year seven, hoping that this time it would be tight round my waist; it still fell slightly. I tucked my shirt into my tights and buckled the belt underneath the rolling, at least it fit now. I turned slightly eyeing the levelling of my skirt. Oh the joy of not seeing my bum, maybe if I just tooch more, then the curves will just miraculously start to form. My skirt was short, but at least it showed off the length of my legs. They say its skanky but at least I’m not wearing socks, my legs look nicer covered in black cotton anyway. Maybe he would notice the length even if all I saw was twigs. I walked to the full length mirror; that will do. I smiled a bit, only to shut my mouth quickly. It wasn’t as bad as the bunny teeth, but the braces still looked lightly goofy. I tied my hair into a sloppy bun and stared at the makeshift beauty queen I had made out of myself. I sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. I’d just have to walk out with my head held high, like a supermodel. “Fake it till you make it right?”
Unfortunately I wasn’t in a particular mood to fake the facade.

I grabbed my school stuff and ran out the door to catch the bus. I grabbed my phone and plugged in the headphones. Normally I would text him right away but I didn’t feel good, didn’t look beautiful, so talking to him would remind me of how much he was way better than me. How he was perfect and how he deserved someone perfect and how I was not. What’s wrong with me? Why did I think like this first thing in the morning? It was true wasn’t it? Sometimes we just need to wake up with a reality check; the truth, even if we hated the truth.

*****

Most bus trips were the same for me. I was always in a daze, my own world, where everything was in slow motion as if in a lucid dream. I was the wandering soul; it seemed my soul was almost tangible and walked, breathed, felt and talked alongside me every day. I was the only one who really saw it and no one understood it. Even I, the body that bares it most times, didn’t understand the things that my soul went through. If I didn’t understand it, who would?

I didn’t even expect him to get me, and recently he proved me right. He’s stopped understanding; I guess he’s tired of the fact that my moral and emotional compass was always pointing far from North. The music kept me going as long as I have, but recently it’s began to feel like a monotone scripture of my life on a daily basis. I couldn’t bring myself to run from that place my mind always went to, it seemed to have made a home there. I knew people were staring at me. I didn’t understand what was so fascinating about me, but I liked it. I liked the attention they were giving me even if I didn’t understand the motive.

“It’s just the makeup.” I whispered to myself internally. “That’s what they’re looking at, how amazing I look with my face paint. A pretty face didn’t mean I had a pretty heart and mind.”

I smiled to myself, almost cynically. These people looking in awe have no idea about the monster they adore looking at. I guess that’s why I did it, I liked the pull, and it felt like a game to me, like the deceitful smile of a clown. I like to make them think they know but they don’t. Then they come closer because they can’t help it, I’ve drawn them in. Then they run, because they can’t handle it, me, the secrets they’ve uncovered are too dark to comprehend. They always drift somehow; it bothers me, but the game’s addictive; it’s the only way I know how.

Soon the bus pulled up at the school bus stop. I stood up and strutted off all the bus, not daring to give anyone attention, knowing it was on me, till I got off. The thing was, my heart always beat rapidly with uncertainty, but they could never tell and that’s all that mattered to me.

“Oh the joy of strangers and what peculiar beauty does to them,” I muttered to myself as the bus drove away with all the strangers looking back at me as I pretended not to notice.

They'd never know insecurity if it hit them in the face with a baseball bat.