The world belongs to you if you’re beautiful. Words written on her mirror, in her notepad, repeated every morning after purging breakfast. Her hair ruined by the now bygone pastel goth craze, too often recolored and deprived of minerals and life. Eyes sunken in, concealed by artfully applied make up. Her morning rituals took an hour. She was one of the people to whom the humor in American Psycho was lost. What good was her youth when it peaked so early and withered away so undeniably fast? Self-destruction was never of interest to her, yet she put her body through hell every day, and it wasn’t enough. It never was enough. Her mother had told her. Her father was gone. Her boyfriend was dead and her family wrong. She didn’t remember why she did these things, long lost was the vanity, the ego, the beauty. She went through the motions and dove right through life. Over almost faster than it had begun. But at least she stopped her story before it got boring.
He burned her initials into his arms, her last embrace lingered for months. He drank till he died and revived, but reborn he was not, as the thoughts never stopped. She carved out a niche in the back of his brain as he carved at his arms, not feeling any pain. Her name was not enough, he drew her face with a knife. The blood reminded him of her hair. He spilled ink right into the wound, a grotesque interpretation of a tattoo, and hoped that what stayed wouldn’t resemble her name nor her face nor her eyes nor her hair… And in vain. He’d never be able to forget like this. So in a moment of terror, he shut his eyes, then opened them wide and out comes the knife, back into the sockets, out flows to his surprise more fluid than solid his vision. He’d never have to worry about seeing her again. And as he stumbled and fell, the last thing he felt was a smell. Her smell. He was certainly in hell.
“Her death was unremarkable. Everyone knew, long, long before. They had already decided for her and would let society have it’s way. We cast her out conciously, not for her actions, but for the actions of others. And we shall burn her, for her beauty shall never pass and always be remembered.”
He thought he did a good job, hiding his disgust. What a wretched being. Later that day, he would be violently murdered by the mother of the young girl. She stabbed him in the face, screaming. Afterwards, she took her life. A violent image. He had known the girl since before her father left. He knew back then, long, long before. As he requested, a pre-recorded sermon was played at his wake, made by himself. No one attended.