Born to parents who saw her beauty immediately and thought to profit from it year in and year out. She learned early that being beautiful meant they had no care as to her wants and needs. They pushed constantly forcing her to learn routines, smiles, waves, answers, you see everything hinged on her being perfect for the judges. She was already stunning to look at, now she had to be stunning in all other areas to win.
She was beautiful and she won for them and when it came time for her to make decisions on her own, she didn’t know how. She didn’t know how to manage a checking account. She couldn’t cook a meal. She didn’t know how to apply for a loan to get in to college and she certainly didn’t know how to make friends.
All she knew was how to be beautiful.
She wrote the note and broke the mirror. She had make-up running down her face. Her tiara was drunkenly askew.
She made several cuts to her face and neck with the jagged piece of mirror she held. Most were shallow and only left small rivulets running down, but others cut deep, deep enough they wouldn’t be fixed simply. Two final slices to her arms and it was done.
The world began to fade into a fuzzy cloud and she touched the note with her bloody fingers almost smearing the words she’d written for the mortician, “I beg you, please don’t make me beautiful.”