Naturality
This reflection in the mirror—it was not me.
The eyes—yes—they were, but this face. It belonged to anyone but me.
Hands grasped my long, thin hair and twirled it around to the back of my head, pinning the bun into its place.
She looked composed, as any girl as beautiful as I would be. But behind this face, there was nothing. I constantly tried to rummage through my mind and remind myself that I was not just this. I was something. I meant something in this world. I wanted to be more than just a pretty face.
But I saw only this face; the only thing society cared about was my face! It was quite a disappointment.
The artist used my face as a palette, drawing red lines upon my lips and blending them into a bright, eye-catching red. The lines continued with a liner pencil, highlighting and bolding the golden eyes, staring back at me. My artist’s hands were soft—a natural soft. It was the best compliment one could give, or receive.
Natural beauty.
“She’s ready.”
The room was filled with approving nods and I watched them through the reflections in the mirror, eyeing my every aspect. Everything that I could call mine was examined; hair, eyes, skin, lips, nose, ears, neck, breasts, torso, legs, shoes.
I felt naked. But it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen that either. Privacy and beauty drew no lines.
“You may leave,” I gave a high-pitched sigh, almost as high as a siren’s song before I leaned forward to stare at myself in the mirror, smiling. As long as the truth behind this beautiful face was concealed, I was alright. It was all well. All was well.
Everything was perfect.
Everything is perfect at first glance.
But if allotted enough time to examine each and every aspect of life—this life—its flaws would surely prevail upon the surface. Life isn’t as glamorous as one thinks it is.
Disitrii made it his liberty to peer out of the car window to occupy himself while others in the car were chattered amongst themselves; plain, expressionless masks thrown over their faces to conceal the faces beneath them. Through the mouth hole in the mask, he let out a breath that fogged up the glass on the window, his gloved hand reaching up to wipe it down before rubbing it upon his suit pants.
From outside of the limo, all the passengers in the car looked eerily alike. They were all wearing the same things, their masks covered by a shadow that appeared from their hats hanging low on their heads.
But for the regulars upon this barren, beat up alleyway, it was a normal sight—to see a Maskmaker marked car drive by with a new batch of men eager for work, even if they did not qualify for the job with their looks.
Disitrii was one who lived a life he did not want to live. He did not choose to be concealed like such, to be one who ‘pleased’ or ‘entertained’ others. There were many definitions to ‘please’ and ‘entertain’. Disitrii knew all of them.
Over the course of human history, the definition of beauty evolved. It shaped generations, eras, and the inspiration of artists. But most importantly, it gave citizens a ‘look’ to aim for. A ‘perfection’ they needed to attain.
It wasn’t long before the perfect candidate for a job was one who was photogenic. At first, it was a good thing. A poor man who was trying to find a job to support a family of four needed nothing more than a pretty face to get him an income.
It was perfect, at first glance. The social hierarchy was changing—the poor became rich and the economy was evening out, balancing amongst all populations.
That was, until the rich caught on. Plastic surgery amongst all ages was especially popular after such a ‘crisis’ as they called it. Once teenagers hit the 16 year old mark, if they were not ‘beautiful’ enough, their parents, if money permitted, would take them to a ‘Maskmaker’ (the term ‘plastic surgeon’ was deemed far too inappropriate for such ‘changing times’) and make them ‘beautiful.’ Some would literally get masks for their face; an extra layer of skin, altering the slightest of imperfections. Others got the real thing.
It was sickening to Disitrii. Naturals (ones who did not meet with the Maskmaker, and were born simply stunning) were hard to come across. One would not know a Natural from a Masked.
Did looks really mean so much to society? But he could not argue—he had not been unclassified as ugly, nor beautiful. He was simply average, as the government classified.
And that is what lead him to such a job.
It was only right that the government made use of the middle class, as they had always done. ‘The working class’ was working, alright. The middle class (the average-looking citizens) were sent out as entertainment purposes for the upper class.
There were many definitions to ‘entertainment,” and Disitrii could have surely defined all of them for a curious mind—but he preferred not to. Sometimes, they were escorts. Other days, they were there for show. It all depended on what the upper class wanted on a given night.
Tonight, it was a ball. The upper class constantly threw balls, parties, celebrations of just pure happiness. They needed no reason to celebrate—they could celebrate for the fact that they were beautiful above all the rest of the world—and there would still be a multitude of people who arrived.
It kept Disitrii with a job.
“Disitrii,” a voice whispered beside him, gruff and gravelly. “Roll up the window.”
He hadn’t realized that the window had rolled down, the smog-like air filling the air inside of the vehicle and causing a few of the others to turn their heads at him. He could not tell if they were staring at him—or at the life outside his window; the curious, less-than-decent faces peering at them. They were watching the vehicle’s passengers with envy. He would never get used to such looks. Not the fact that it was envious looks, but because the owners of such faces—they were not ugly.
Nobody deserved such words to be attached to a face. Many of them were old men and women, along with a few middle-agers. It saddened him to see so many people capable of life to be discriminated against like such. They were disregarded in the streets, called names, and treated as if they did not deserve to live. But they were still humans.
“I pity them, Jaeson,” Disitrii muttered in a low voice, though he had no reason to be quiet—the people right outside their window knew that they were either pitied or hated. Nobody would turn a blind eye towards them.
“You mustn’t pity them, Disitrii,” Jaeson shook his head, and reached across Disitrii’s body to roll up the window, creating a barrier between the outside world—a temporary barrier. “It’s not safe to do so.”
“What makes you think I want to be safe?”
“I hate these parties,” I whispered to Crysta, who only nodded in response. Her bright blue eyes were far too busy scanning all of the attendees of yet another party.
“As do I, Elaiyne,” she smiled and looked over at me with a smile. “Just crowded with beautiful people, and handsome men. Ugh.” She gave me a helpless look. “Dreadful, I tell you.”
I gave a ringing laugh and shoved her lightly, smiling directly to the people around us, who only gave us approving looks in return. At least we were making a positive impression. I didn’t bother introducing myself to the partygoers though—they all seemed to know who I was anyways.
Elaiyne, daughter of Isaac and Jascee Fray. They were quite popular, not for their natural looks to die for, but their parties as well. Not a day went by where there wasn’t a party in our house. It got old after a while for me—I stopped attending once I turned 13—but not for the rest of the world.
Tonight was the ‘Night of Blood’. My parents enjoyed a theme that went with every party. Last night was ‘Green Envy’ meaning everyone was dressed in green, or some variation of that sort. Tonight, on the other hand, was going to be one of my favorites for this week. Hence the reason I decided to join.
My mother had helped me pick out my dress from the boutique, throwing it into my arms and telling me that it was perfect. It was. The dress was a bright red with small, silver gems embedded on every inch of the dress, but not overdoing it with the shine. It was like silk beneath my skin, and I smiled once I had looked into the mirror. I rarely did that with an authentic smile—the other ones were usually fake.
When I tried to tell her that we might need to make it a little bit bigger, she sort of gave me a look that told me she was disappointed in me, before buying the dress anyways. I had been on a strict liquid diet for the last week. But I was prepared to do so in order to fit into my dress.
Out of pure habit, I lifted my hand up to my face, touching it carefully, just to see if it was sculpted in the most perfect way—I could not be flawed in any way. The headband that circled around my hair was black to blend in with my hair, and the veil fell over a side of my face to hide my ‘bad side’, as the artist (and mother) had called it.
Crysta and I walked past a few men speaking amongst themselves before throwing me an approving look. “If you’re looking for a beautiful man, Elaiyne . . .” She laughed as she tilted her head back once more, staring at them and eyeing them with a grin. I continued walking though, ignoring her profanities. “Look no further than the feast in front of you!”
She was dead right.
“Milady.”
A gloved hand extended towards me, piercing through the very atmosphere that my world had revolved around. I drew in a breath as my eyes traced the feature of his gloves, to his jacket, his shoulder, his neck, then up to his mask. I drew back.
“You’re Masked, sir.”
“Your powers of observation do not deceive you, milady,” he chuckled and peered up at me with blank eyes. They were not seen through the mask, but I could see faint traces of it as light reflected into the mask. His voice, as well, was muffled inside the suffocation of the mask. But it was unlike many other voices—others did not dare speak unless spoken to. “Am I to understand you do not dance with your own entertainers?”
“I . . . well, you see . . .” His hand was still extended towards me, and I was inclined to take it. But I did not know him—he did not know me.
“Get your filthy hands off of her!” Crysta came up from behind and shoved him aside with the force of a bull, yet, he only took one step back and bowed once again to both of us—or maybe it was just me.
As he straightened his back once more and gave us one last glance before heading on his way, I saw something in his eyes. They glistened with a sort of spark, and I swore that I could see him smirk through his mask. But I was not sure if it was a smirk, or simply a trick of the light. I could not see his face, and I could not judge him on such a basis.
“That little smart-aleck better get his ass back to the kick line and entertain us,” Crysta muttered under her breath, throwing the group of men and women in masks a dirty look.
I knew she disliked them because they yearned for a life like ours—one of glamour and parties—and they would never be able to attain such a thing. She still saw them as a threat though. They were still handsome and beautiful—just not to society’s standards. And they were especially not as handsome and beautiful as we were.
But as he returned into the ‘kick line’ as Crysta called it, he was engulfed into the crowd of eerily alike men. Their heads were bowed down immediately as he returned, stepping into the middle and shuffling together to make space for others who were returning as well. Their heads bowed down, as if listening to what he had to say, before their heads lifted up, their chests heaving in and out as if they were laughing.
He was soon indistinguishable amongst the Masked ones, and I took that as my cue to continue with my party. Nobody needed to put a crimp in my festivities tonight.
“Crysta,” I smiled to her, cutting into the middle of her sentence (she was still going off about the middle class) and extending my hand, giving an exaggerated bow. “May I have the pleasure?”
Princess Elaiyne Fray.
She was the gem of tonight. She was the reason the entertainers were here. She was . . . ‘our mission’ so to speak. We did not simply come to such parties in hope of getting compliments (though, that was the message that this party was attempting to send out to their partygoers), but instead, to entertain.
We did whatever we could to keep the party going. The longer the party, and the happier the party residents, the more money we got overall.
Becoming acquainted with the party host wasn’t such a bad idea either. It was thought more of a . . . bonus.
Laughing, I spun into the arms of another party guest, who was obviously intoxicated as he attempted to maneuver me around him and then twirl me into his arms. He was leaping onto his feet with the beat of the music that blared from every corner of the room—the band was quite impressive tonight—and he attempted to twirl me once more with another stinging failure.
The Masked ones were making their way around as well; their skills in dancing were far too stiff for my liking, so I made sure to steer away from such circles. But the older generation seemed to know their ‘stiff’ movements in their dance, taking a hold of either a Masked one of the opposite gender and making their way away from the crowded area.
It wasn’t long until couples and Masked ones were standing directly beside each other with their palms out and just barely touching one another’s. What was it called again? Mango . . . tango . . . something of that sort.
I held up my own hand and immediately felt the music change into a dark, but upbeat sort of melody, a hand immediately taking my own. I held up my head and began walking in a circle, waiting for the right moment in the song to snap my head to meet his, as we circled around each other, then snapping back to the exterior of the circle.
It was a Masked one, but I could not tell if it was him or not, as we were swallowed into the circle of dancers, mimicking our movements—or maybe we were mimicking theirs.
The song hit a high point, and all of the men took the women by the hand and pulled them closer. I felt my bare back just barely graze the Masked one’s chest and immediately I felt my body being held by him. His hand took me by my waist while the other took a firm grip of my hand and pointed his chin towards it as well. My head tilted towards my hand and I curled my fingers around his, letting him guide me as he spun me around to face him, our hands never losing contact.
I did not know if it was him—why was I so concerned with him or the possibility that it was him? I had danced with many Masked ones before like this; tonight was of no difference.
His breath was on my back, and I felt myself immediately stiffen at the touch, but continued with the dance—everyone was dancing, and I would draw attention to myself if I did not, as well. The denial of a dance with someone was a sign of insecurity, meaning my parents would be notified and I would have to be taught a lesson. A lesson on ‘being a true woman.’ A lesson on ‘feeling truly beautiful.’
As we danced, I felt the people around us rush by, their faces stiff and dark as the song increased and decreased in tempo. And as soon as the music paused for a moment, everyone stopped, before switching partners once more.
A hand touched my back, circling around my waist and gripping me close before pulling me towards him, a warm, protective feeling immediately pulling me into his hold, his hand enclosing around mine.
I let my head tilt to the side, where I felt his gaze follow as we traced our way around the circle, my feet sliding in synchronization with his. My suspicions had ceased to exist now—up until the point where he leaned his face close to the back of my neck, the cold feel of his mask lips pressing against my skin.
“Elaiyne.”
I gave a slight tilt of my head, as if to push his mask away from my skin—almost as if it was contaminated. “My apologies for not knowing your name, sir. But I do not take time out of my night to try and speak to misfits.”
He gave a muffled chuckle through his mask, his eyes flickering up to meet mine as I gave him a challenging look, smirking. “Disitrii. And now you will remember it.”
“And forget of it after this evening.”
“If only, milady,” he spun me around so I faced him now. If he had wanted to make an impression, he certainly did. He sucked at being scary. “I’m hard to forget.”
“I can certainly try, sir.”
She could certainly try. Meaning she would most likely fail.
“I’m quite difficult to forget, Elaiyne,” his eyes flickered down to hers, to study her reaction.
There was no reaction, only the prominent smirk that played on her rouged lips. “I’ll be the judge of that. You don’t necessarily have anything distinctive about you that would make me want to remember such a man.”
We had stopped dancing.
“Would you like me to take off my mask, milady?” His eyes narrowed, taunting. Why was it that I felt him smirk, even though he was masked?
“No, she would not,” a hand took me by the crook of my elbow and yanked, pulling me away from Disitrii (I had remembered his name, which upset me a little, but that was the least of my
worries).
I was suddenly aware of the fact that with just that one phrase uttered from his lips—he was in trouble. Crysta acted more of a protector rather than a friend at times—these were one of those times.
“I suggest you back off, whoever you are,” she muttered, looking up at him with eyes narrowed and dissecting his presence, inch by inch.
He seemed to be unaffected by such accusing looks as he watched her carefully, as if his very existence here could not be thwarted. Disitrii (again, his name!) bowed, though his eyes were still locked on Crysta. “My sincerest apologies. I was merely suggesting that she might want to compare her looks to one of a mere commoner like myself.”
My, my, was he a conniving one. He had certainly gotten Crysta convinced of his so-called ‘intentions’ while I on the other hand . . .
“Yes,” Crysta was a professional at barging into the middle of my thoughts. She turned to me with bright eyes, raising a brow. “Is she not beautiful?”
“Why, of course she is,” he wasted no time in his response, which I was taken aback at. “Very flatteringly beautiful. Impressive, for one who has met with the Maskmaker.”
His eyes met mine at the very moment he said ‘Maskmaker,’ as if he had planned this entire conversation, and was only waiting for my response. Once the words escaped his mouth, there was no taking them back—he knew that much.
“Pardon?” I wanted to make sure my ears were not deceiving me.
“I do hope your ears are working properly, milady,” he stood up straight and then looked at me, bowing once and letting his eyes just barely fall out of my sight. “You must know that such beauty that you have is unattainable. Your skin, does it not feel too tough? Your lips too thin, and nose too small? Plus, your curvature is unnatural.”
I drew in a breath of air, but that breath of air was hot, and it lingered in my lungs, aching to erupt and pour its contents of lava. Once I knew that his gaze was not on mine, nor watching my every move, I ripped the mask from his face, tearing away the protective barrier from his ugly face and slamming it to the ground. But not before I had managed to ball my hand into a fist and throw a quick hook to his jaw, hitting him right in the place where I intended the blow to land.
To him, it was an unexpected and heavy blow, knocking him to the ground beside his mask as he held his jaw, and I gave a menacing smirk in regard to the very act of punching him in the face. I had to say, that I quite enjoyed the feel of power within my own hands.
But I was so focused on the glory of the act that I had forgotten of the reason behind it. Slowly, my eyes went to meet his, just as the other Masked ones came running, along with the other half of the party. They surrounded us, but did not make a move to touch Disitrii, because they were all in awe.
None of them could match the look upon my face, though.
With a quick breath, I fought the urge to give him another blow to the face before turning on my heel and heading the other direction with my cheeks flaring red and hands curled into fists.
Impossible.
It was quite flattering, how she blushed.
Almost as if it was her real face. Yet, it was not. It had never been, and never would be.
She had done nothing to deny the fact that the face that she had underneath her own mask was just as beautiful and flawless as the one she was born with.
Elaiyne did not know that the world was filled with people who hid their children’s beauty, so they could be seen as a ‘natural beauty,’ not their children. Over the past few decades, the snatching of potentially beautiful children off of the streets was not uncommon.
Sometimes, the kidnapping was just a means of giving someone a new life. A second chance, so to say.
Good intentions such as these went unheard of while others kidnapped in order to keep the potentially beautiful children off of the streets and into their grasps. This was mostly done by rich and famous families, who could not bear to see another child who was far more beautiful than their own offspring.
The ones who were kidnapped were more than likely already brainwashed by the time a mask had been made for them. They would be told “We will make you beautiful” and “We have saved you from such ugly grasps of the devil.”
They were told what was beautiful and what was not. They were told that that big lips were too ugly, wide eyes were too alien-like, and that their skin was too pale or too dark.
And the children would come to believe them too. They would believe that they themselves were ugly, that they would never be good enough for society.
On the ceiling above my head, my eyes traced over where his face would be. His lips, nose, eyes, and color of hair were still distinctly implanted into my brain even after only a split second of looking at his face—his true face.
Beside me, Crysta began peeling the layer of skin under the base of my throat, releasing the clammy mask as I let out a sigh. It wasn’t long before I was sprawled out on my back, stretching and craning my neck once the entire mask had been pulled from my skin, being placed carefully into a case.
Disitrii.
He had blue eyes. They were like coral; like the ocean. They reminded me of . . . beautiful blue things—all blue things in the world. His skin was smooth and flawless, even though I had not touched his face. I could see, therefore, I could almost. His face was just barely out of memory’s reach.
“You know it was unacceptable to do so, Elaiyne.” Crysta stared down at me as I continued to look into the mirror, lost in my own train of thought as I stared at an empty space in the room.
“Which part was unacceptable?” I asked, tilting my head—I was confused. “When I punched him, or when I decided that he was far more handsome than any other gentleman I have met?”
“He is no gentleman, Elaiyne . . .”
“‘He is simply charming,’” I mimicked my mother’s voice, shaking my head. “‘Because he was raised that way, because he is taught to be charming.’” I met her eyes and waved her away. “I can assure you, Crysta—his charm is not faked. It is true, and I have not seen it with any others.”
“Suit yourself.” She closed the door behind her.
I stared at the reflection in the mirror after she was gone. This reflection was mine. The eyes that were a shade too dark to be blue, skin too pale, and lips too thick for perfection. My skin was not flawless, small surgical cuts along the edges of my face from the mask.
Who had determined what was beautiful, and what was not? What was the true definition? Could it be, that it was normal to look like this and not be classified as ‘ugly’? Disitrii had definitely done it. He had stunning natural beauty—he was handsome, which was what society wanted me to focus on. That was not his only trait though. He was charming, easy to talk to. But society wanted me to think that it was how he was raised. Everyone was convinced that it was the only reason why they were such good entertainers.
Then why is society not charming towards each other?
My fingers ran across the scars with a sigh, closing my eyes and letting my head fall to the desk.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
The voice startled me, my head lifting from the desk to stare into the mirror where Disitrii stood, masked. If not for his voice, I would have thought it was any other Masked one who had made way into my room (which was quite impossible, considering I lived in the highest level of the mansion, and my balcony’s doors were always locked).
Disitrii had somehow made it in, undetected.
“It was, a second ago,” I simply replied to the reflection. I did not make any movement to turn around and face him. Blood pumped through my body at a faster rate, my heart beating through my ears.
“Come here, Elaiyne,” it was not a suggestion.
Glaring at him through the mirror, I raised a brow and spun my chair around to face him, lips pursed and eyes just barely meeting his. “Yes?”
With a quick gesture, he took off his mask, peeling it from his face with a sort of grace that only angels were gifted with. His features were even more handsome than I had remembered. I drew in a breath.
He took out his hand and gestured to me, and I stood, enchanted as he turned around and pointed to the barren balcony.
“Look at her,” Disitrii said once I made my way beside him, pulling my wrap closer to my shoulders to fend of the wind.
He pointed off into the distance, where a small child played in the street with nothing more than a mere rock. “Does she not deserve to feel beautiful? Does she not deserve to be told ‘you are beautiful’? Does she not deserve what we have, what we feel, what we do? She does not deserve to be told ‘you are ugly’ at such a young age, and thrown out into the streets.”
I watched him in awe, a sort of agony shaping my heart, coating and thickening it. I wanted him to stop talking. I wanted him to stop making me feel guilty for what I had.
“She is still human,” he said, his voice now barely a whisper as he pinched the bridge of his nose. It was almost as if it hurt him to look at her. “She is still capable of feeling pain. Because who she is—it will never be enough for society to accept her. The way one looks is much different than how one presents him or herself.”
My eyes fell on his figure, and my hand moved closer to his, taking him by the hand and intertwining our fingers. It was the first time I was conscious of the fact that we were touching—just to touch. Not because we had to dance, not because it was a formality to do so.
Once he squeezed my hand back, I looked up at him, and he, at me. The feeling was unnatural, feeling both right and wrong at the same time. It was a wrenching feeling in my gut, but I knew, in my mind, that it wasn’t right. Nor was it wrong to do so.
I had never held someone’s hands before like this, out of pure comfort. I did not comfort—I preferred to be comforted.
“Being beautiful is not the most important concept in our lives, Elaiyne,” he said. And he whispered for me, nobody else. “It is only the beginning. Beauty hides many secrets—and that one secret is the reason why the world that you see, does not correspond with one that you know. Looks are deceiving; you can hide a million lies beneath that face of yours and manage to tell the truth.
“You can tell someone they’re beautiful, and they will believe it—you will too, because you are convinced that by being told so, you are accepting the fact that beauty is the only thing that makes sense. Not personality, or who a person is.
“Once upon a time, society was based on smarts, personality, and how you presented yourself—not solely on looks, but how educated you were and how easy it was to speak to you. Nowadays, that does not matter. If he is handsome—‘hot,’ as you put it—he is immediately accepted into society despite his speech inability.” A distant thought crossed his mind, sending his mind across the ocean while I held onto the part of him that did not matter, in his case. “Once beauty shapes your entire life—when you build it around one aspect . . . it only takes one strike to take it all down.”
“Like you.”
“That’s the impression I hoped to have made.”
“You purposely said those things . . .” I was hoping he’d fill in the silence, so I did not have to. I had made sure I did not meet his eyes.
“I was merely pointing out things you have failed to see,” he let his hand guide away from my hand, spinning me around in a full circle before I stood in front of him, his face leaning in closer to me. He was looking at my face with the same look he had given me before when we had danced—how I knew it? His eyes twinkled (it was something I was fond of in him).
This was me, and he was looking at me with nothing less than awe. Disitrii continued to stare at my face, as if soaking in all of the features.
“If you were to love me, Disitrii,” I said after a long silence, a stern look crossing upon my face. “What would you love?”
It was suddenly quiet as I peered up at him, awaiting his words—I wanted to know. He watched me for a moment, as if soaking up my very question and presence—everything about me. It was a long, agonizing moment before a smirk crossed his lips, immediately taking effect as I quickly gave a shy smile in return.
“This.”
His head tilted downwards and he leaned forward ever so slightly, his lips pressing to mine in the softest, most delicate way. I drew in a breath and smiled, my hands suddenly climbing up his neck and threading through his hair as I pulled him closer.
“This?” I murmured against his lips, suppressing a giggle. “A kiss?”
“Not a kiss, Elaiyne,” he shook his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine. “Our kiss.”
“You’re a ball of cheese, sir Disitrii,” I laughed and pushed him away, balling my hands into a fist and punching him the arm. “Now . . . get out.”
Breathless, was she not?
“Where is your mask, Elaiyne?” The shrill cry came from my door as I sat in front of the mirror, combing my hair.
“What was that, mother?” I was too busy staring at myself in the mirror, running a quick hand through my hair before I patted a few dabs of foundation onto the scars upon my face. They would be healed soon, and my face would be able to go back to its normal growth.
It would return to its natural state.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Her cries had gone up a few octaves, but it was no different than it had always been. It was the same, flustered, ‘trying-to-be-mother-like-at-such-a-young-ish-age’ type voice. I knew it by heart.
“I’m being me,” I tilted my head up to meet her gaze. “Am I not beautiful, mother?”
“In that state, no.”
That sort of left a sting. It wasn’t the fact that I hadn’t heard it before, but more so the fact that the response was quick, as if she already knew the answer by heart, determined to shoot me down.
“Then it’s true,” I simply replied, setting my comb down to meet her eyes through the mirror. “What he said.”
“Who said what?” She didn’t wait for a response, yanking the chair from the mirror and pulling me towards her, bending down and staring me in the eyes. “It was that Masked boy, was it not? What did he say about me?
“He didn’t say anything about you, mother.” As if Elaiyne was her mother’s first priority anyways. “He only told me the truth.”
“Truth about . . .?”
“How you were jealous of me, mother. And you still are,” I retorted, once her questions had become aggravating. “Disitrii explained that the only reason why I am your daughter is the fact that I was far more beautiful, and you did not want to have competition. So you made up lies, told me I was not good enough, told me that I needed to be far more beautiful to be accepted into such a society based upon my face. But my face . . .” I caressed the scars slowly. “You only did this so you could damage my perfection, yes?” I did not wait for an answer—I was far too convinced to even give her a second look. “So you would be the beautiful one of the entire family—so father would not give me double takes, no matter the issue. I am not your daughter, nor am I his. I am just another reject from the streets.
“I do not see how you could not just leave me on the streets to die, mother. Or were you afraid that you too, would be threatened by such an existence as this?” I pointed to my face. “I see the way you look at the Masked ones, and the rejects on the streets—no matter how they look, you feel threatened. You cannot be in the presence of one for long. Can you not reason out why?
“Jealousy.” I made sure to make the word last in her mind. I was prepared to have that phrase echo throughout the room, and her mind.
There was a long pause. She was still staring at me with narrowed eyes before she stood up and rose her hand, giving me a slap across the face that I had never felt before. The only thing that I kept running through my mind as I landed on the ground was the fact that the slap was not as powerful as the punch I’d thrown last night. I was capable of much more strength than they were.
“I have sacrificed my youth to raise a wretched child like you to grow up as flawless as you are,” she huffed, tucking a strand of hair behind her head with the hand that had struck me. “I have protected you from a cruel world out there, I have made you a proper lady, and you throw it all away for a mere commoner such as that . . . boy.”
“He has a name, mother!”
“I am not your mother, Elaiyne!”
“His name is Disitrii, you b—.”
She drew back at such words, holding a hand to her lips and calling out for my father and the rest of the mansion. We could not swear in such a perfect world. But I’ll be damned if I cared one bit anymore.
Taking this as my cue to leave, I shrugged into a jacket and straightened my jeans before turning back at her with a smirk, giving her a two fingered salute (I would have much rather given her my one finger salute) before jumping down four stories, and into Disitrii’s arms.
Breathing in, the scent that filled my nostrils was a pleasant one, familiar. But it wasn’t cut out to last as the door flew open and before I knew it, I was running. My feet hit the ground with heaviness, as if it was drawing me away from freedom—freedom with Disitrii, but the hand that guided me was soft, swift, and was pulling me towards everything I never knew I wanted.
I had just managed to spring across the courtyard and through the back when I tilted my head to look up at the balcony where my room lay. My mother, my father, and Crysta stood at the top, arms crossed, glaring at me and shaking their heads.
But I detected a hint of a smile upon my mother’s lips.
Her hand in his hold, gripping onto him with all the trust that she had, made him smile as they made it out and into the dark streets. She was not the most beautiful woman he had ever met—but her eyes were wonderful, her laugh was contagious, and her heart was true . . . she had beauty in her touch and . . .
Her kiss was all the more he needed to fall in love.
Disitrii may have been simply a fool with dreams, but this was one thing he was sure of.
Elaiyne? She was rightful property of Disitrii now. He had freed her, and with that, they had both expanded their own freedom—it was endless.
“Ouch,” I cooed, drawing in a stinging breath and pulling my hand away from his hold. “That hurts.” I gave him a smirk and pushed him away playfully.
“It sure looks like it, Elaiyne,” he laughed and finished tying the piece of cloth around my hand, slipping the remaining pieces of cloth into his pocket—he was being careful not to leave any traces of our being here, in this clearing.
I leaned back on the rock I was sitting on, dipping my feet into the river and smiling out at him as he tended to my other hand, cut and scraped by branches and thorns while making our way around the courtyard and into the barren fields of the outskirts of the city.
Taking in a deep breath, I inhaled, and then exhaled, letting the freedom fill my lungs. With a smile, I looked around at everything around me, and it was as if I was looking at it all with new eyes. It was all fresh, beautiful, and breathless; Disitrii included.
He knelt before me, tending to my hand, dipping the cloth into the water and dabbing at the cuts on my hand before wrapping it with the most careful of touches. I did not flinch or pull away—I didn’t want the feeling to be taken away.
My other hand reached out to touch his face, and I smiled as his eyes flickered up to meet mine, the coral blue was mesmerizing enough, but as he smiled back . . . the breath I had taken in had caught in my throat.
“What are you thinking?”
He paused for a moment as he tilted his head upwards, as if trying to rack his brain for the proper words. “No, no. You tell me first.” Disitrii stood up and brushed himself off, running a hand through his hair.
“Fine.” I gave him a disapproving look and stood as well to make sure he wasn’t condescending upon me—not that he’d want to anyways. “I’m thinking that . . .” I crossed my arms behind my back, peering up at him and smiling softly. This smile was unlike the rest I’d ever given. It hid a secret that was just barely beyond reach. “I’m thinking that I love you.”
Silence. There was silence in his eyes, his movements, and his words. Then, there was a crack of a smile.
“Everything is beautiful when you’re in love,” he said—it was almost like he had come to a realization as well, a conflicted look crossing his face as I stood before him, tilting my head in confusion.
“Everything is capable of beauty.” He had taught me that.
The rock I had been sitting on—it was beautiful. Maybe a million couples before had kissed upon this rock, or maybe just one—one significant couple that had decided that the rock and this meadow was worthy enough to witness such an act like a simple kiss.
“Everything is capable of beauty,” he repeated, with a nod as he looked down at me, circling his hand around my waist and pulling me into an embrace. His lips pressed to my forehead, then traced to my hair as I wrapped my arms tightly around him.
I breathed in, just to inhale him. His hand traced up the side of my body, causing a tingling sensation upon my skin.
“Including death,” he whispered, in the lowest voice.
At first, I could not hear him . . . but it became evident as I felt a cool metal pressed against my skin, and before I could stop it, before I could react, and before I could even come to realize what was happening, the dagger had driven itself through my heart. I was suddenly aware of the fact that my feet were slipping out from under me, yet he held me up to look at him.
Disitrii had tears in his eyes.
“I tried to warn you, Elaiyne,” he murmured.
I tried to blink away this nightmare—it did not work. His voice was becoming faint, and I gripped onto his head of hair as if to prevent me from falling. “I tried to warn you . . .” He repeated this over and over again while I slowly began to lose consciousness.
The pain—I could not feel it. All I knew was that there was a part of me that knew that I was dying. I could feel a numbing pain. There was so much pain that I could not feel. I was losing this battle that I had neither prepared for— nor witnessed in my life. I was so confused. But yet, there was a part of me that knew . . . this was not his fault.
This was not his fault.
“I warned you, Elaiyne,” he repeated, but his face was no longer in my consciousness. My eyes had ceased to open. I was slowly letting go, because now I knew the definite definition of beauty.
Being beautiful meant being looked at in the way that Disitrii had looked at me when we first met. Being beautiful meant nothing unless there was someone to acknowledge such a fact.
Disitrii had done that for me.
Being beautiful meant looking at Disitrii in that one way I had never looked at anyone else before. And I was glad to be a martyr for such a cause. I wanted to make him feel as beautiful as he had made me.
So with one last effort, I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze only partially, his blue eyes just barely seen for one last time before giving him all the beauty in the world in such small strength that I had left.
I smiled.
She would have been the death of me sooner or later.
But that smile . . . that smile!
I loved her. And I only wanted to rid her of the pain I knew was yet to come.
I am a Masked one. I can never love. I am not capable of love. I am not handsome enough, nor capable to make such decisions based on such ‘feelings.’
I serve to rid the rats of society.
. . . But I love her. I did, I had, and I will forevermore continue to.
Elaiyne—
—Looks can be deceiving, no?
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