The girl stared critically at her face in the mirror. How could this be her own reflection? Every flaw reached out a grasping claw to snare her attention, assaulting her eyes. Yet no matter how hard she tried she couldn't look away from the mirror. Why?

Was it her flat, thin, dull blond hair, which tangled in greasy twists? Obviously not. The strands of hair hung down limply across her head, clutching her scalp like it was afraid it couldn’t stand up to gravity and would fall off at any minute. It twisted in ugly half curly clumps down to just below her shoulders, where it seemed to just stop dead. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away from the mirror.

Maybe, then, it was her skin. Hardly. Her face was the pallor of some lonely nightwalker that had never in their life seen the sun, paler than a corpse. Then there were the red patches of acne that mapped their way across the snowy white, standing out like blood on fresh paper. Her cheeks were rough, like oatmeal had been haphazardly glued on in places. These patches looked like they were peeling off, like decay before death. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away from the mirror.

Perhaps it was the features of her face: her ugly, bog colored eyes; too small, blemished nose; and thin, blue-tinged lips. Dark bruise like rings surrounded her bloodshot eyes. No emotion seemed to be able to penetrate the deep, swampy green irises, but any indicator made that seem like a good thing. Her nose, dotted with dark, clogged pores looked out of place and small; shaped and sized like it hadn’t grown since the day she was born. The longer than usual stretch of skin between her nose and upper lip was chapped, red, and peeling, from a bad habit she had of licking her lips when she was uncomfortable. The irritated skin spread down to two razor's slit thin lips that looked one shade bluer than indigo, yet pale enough not to stand out in any kind of good way. This blue tinge had been there her whole life, making her look sickly and weak. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away from the mirror.

Some sick, morbid fascination kept her eyes locked on her imperfect face; citing every flaw, every external blemish. An anger inside her, one she had never known before started to become conscious. She was a nice person. She was intelligent. So why the hell was she so ugly? Who did she piss off to become so horribly repulsive? It wasn’t fair! Bitchy, stupid, but beautiful girls were staring at her constantly; from the covers of magazines, in the halls at school, anywhere she went. They sneered at her imperfections, the imperfections they deserved, not her!! Why was she cursed to be shunned and laughed at her whole life, when she was so much better than all those popular girls with their vacant minds and out of place good looks were?

Finally the rage in her took over, and before she knew what was happening, her hand had smashed through the glass. Shards of the mirror stuck in her hand. She screamed out in anger, and started scraping her shard encrusted hand over her face, cutting away at the looks she didn't deserve. The glass left long, jagged ribbons of red blood streaming down her face. It tore through the pale skin; the rough, red patches; the razor thin lips and baby nose; covering all of it in short, deep cuts that seeped red blood like snakes slithering down her face.

Somewhere in this hazed mix of pain and anger, a small voice cried out. How was she any different from them? How was this obsession with he faults any different than their obsession with perfection? A choking sob came through her slowly, feeling like a wave of nausea. She was everything she hated in life. Tears rolled down her face like salty ocean waves, mingling with blood and turning a dark orange. God, she was so pathetic. She wasn’t all she thought she was. Her less than average looks were a perfect mirror for her ugly, bitter soul. She had done this to herself. For once she would welcome nature as it was, to finish what she had begun.

The End