The mirror shattered and shards of glass ripped through my face. I smiled. The tears that fled down my cheeks from the day’s ridicules and verbal lashing turned into laughable irony. Soon scars will appear and the world of bully’s focused on my completion and attraction would have no more material for their daily battles with my self-esteem.
I wiped the blood from my face. It dripped slowly over my hands, letting the pain soak into my skin. Then like sand castles, I let the faucet water wash it all away.
“Are you okay Kia?” Mom was worried. Both about the loud sound and me. She saw the cloud cover me as I paced through the hallway, just moments before I allowed the mirror to change my life.
“Yeah mom. No worries. I’ll clean it up.” Truthfully, I was the one who needed to clean up. Not because of the blood stained sink or the gruesome cuts on my face. I needed to clean out my mind from the hatred I endured. The misguided assumptions about who I was doing and where. All because of what I looked out.
“Beautiful’ is what my parents and family called me. But how could I be beautiful if those same eyes, nose, lips, voice, walk, and style is what those girls hated about me at school.
But not anymore, I would shut my mouth more; run to each class with my old raggedy clothes, oh and my face–my new ugly face.
“What are you cleaning up sweetie?”
I turned and slowly opened the door. It was as if the scars took away my pain and fear. I was ready to show the world the new me, starting with Mom.
Mom stood at the opened door with tears building in her eyes. But in one exhale, they were gone.
“Oh sweetie. Why would you do something like that to yourself?” Her tone was calm and it scared me. Why wasn’t she in shook at my blood stained face.
She grabbed the nearby towel, wet it and wiped my cheek. It’s burned but I took it.
“I don’t want to be beautiful any more. Being ‘beautiful’ hurts. The girls hate me for it so if my face is gruesome, they would leave me alone, right?
“My beautifully, ignorant child. You’ve played right into their game.” She wiped the other cheek but I was too focused on her next words to feel any more pain.
“This is what they want,” she continued. “Beauty scares people because it’s rare. Believe me when I say what makes you beautiful is much more than just your face—it’s your heart.” She put her hand on my chest.
“It’s your spirit. It’s etched in your genes and all you need to do is believe that no matter what you could ever do to you self, that beauty will go nowhere.”
She turned me to the remaining pieces of the mirror and those gashes were now just small red scratches on my face. My wounds were healing fast, faster than I’ve ever seen and I didn’t understand how.
“My child. You have the gift of beauty. Use that beautiful heart to reach out to those girls because apparently, they must have forgotten how beautiful they were. Go use your gift and help them find their ‘beauty’. It will be hard, but it’s your purpose.”
She turned to exit the room as I stared dumbfounded at my healed face.
She began to close the door back, but before it locked she whispered through the crack, “Oh, and you’re a witch. You will always heal quickly.”
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