Ugly and the Beast

I am Ugly.

This was not always true. Once, I was beautiful. Once, I could look at my face with pride for its symmetry, its color, its allure. Back then, I never had to worry before stepping outside to be seen.

But then the Beast came, appearing into my room as I slept, and every night since then, scar me ever so slightly. For years, I have tried to capture it, contain it, kill it, escape it, but it always returned and always with its blades, taking a piece of me away.

Now, my face is mutilated. The Beast took away its symmetry, slowly, slowly making my eyes crooked. It twisted my lips, sliced my nostrils, plucked out my eyelashes, and punctured my skin with hundreds of holes. It tore away at my body, at my arms and thighs and my sides. My breasts and buttocks have lost their shape, my skin has paled to a cement gray, and my hair has been ravaged.

No one else has ever seen the Beast but they have seen the toll it has taken on me.

The Beast is a small creature, but very heavy. It is demonic, with needles for fingers and no eyelids. It sits on my chest when I sleep and I am unable to move. I wake up in the middle of the night and see it looking down at me. I struggle to breath as it takes its knives and scissors and cuts away at me, never breaking eye-contact.

It forced me to watch myself become uglier and uglier, and after years of devastation, I am unrecognizable even to myself.

Now, when I go to bed, I lie awake, furious at what the Beast has done to me, and shameful for letting it be done to me. Now, when I step outside, I cover myself as much as possible, to prevent people from staring and judging.

How I hate them all.

All, except one. The man I call my Prince. I have long been infatuated with my Prince since I was a child and we first attended school together. I watched him from afar, and when my face and body became more beautiful than anyone else’s in high school, I finally had the courage to speak with him, to flirt and to tempt.

He is a kind man, my Prince. Handsome and smart, but above all, caring and generous. Maybe, when the Beast first appeared, I could have gone to my Prince, maybe he could have saved me if I had been upfront and honest with him. But I was too scared, too embarrassed, and said nothing.

And as I deteriorated at the claws of the Beast, that’s when Beauty came along.

Beauty was the most popular girl in our grade, for obvious reasons. Tall and lean, wide eyes, straight teeth, perky, sizeable breasts, smooth skin, and a persistent fragrance of lilies. “Oh, how kind,” I would hear the girls say. “And so modest,” the teachers would agree. “So sexy,” the boys would whisper.

Lies, all of it. The Beauty was a bitch and I was the only one who could tell.

I was the only one who saw her sneer behind people’s backs, insult them under her breath, narrow her eyes in disgust when those of a lesser status spoke to her. To hear so many fond over her disgusted me.

She must’ve known that I knew. Every time there was the slightest chance of eye contact, she would avoid me. Beauty absolutely refused to look at me, no matter where we were. At first, I thought it was because my own disfigurement mortified her. But now I’m certain, surely, she knew what I would say if she had the gall to just look at me: the truth.

But to have to watch her fawn over my Prince? To swoop in, while I languished under the torture of the Beast, and steal my love away from me? As though I had not suffered enough, I had to watch him return her affection twofold? Deceived by her façade, he had become smitten with something as treacherous as Beauty.

I could not allow it. I would not accept it. Something needed to be done.

So, after much contemplation, I went to bed and lied, fully awake, and watched as the Beast came for me once again. It never approaches, it never crawls or sneaks, it does not slither into my sheets. It always materializes on my chest, heavy and insurmountable.

I watched as it deliberated whether to stick its knives in my eye and damage my vision yet again or to inject more cellulite in my calves, but it settled on reaching into my mouth and twisting a tooth ever so slightly. As it reached for my lips, I finally spoke.

“Teach me what you do.”

The Beast froze, thinking over what I had said. It smiled, revealing a row of flat teeth and black gums. “You have found someone beautiful. Why else would you ask?”

I nodded, unsurprised to discover I could move my head. The Beast was intrigued. I said, “I want to make her as ugly outside as she is in. I want everyone to see what I see.”

“And in return? What is my boon?”

“My company,” I said. It was a gamble. The Beast had taken away everything I had, and this was what little else I had to offer. “I will go with you to mutilate her and you will finally have someone to appreciate your craftsmanship.”

It grinned and for the first night in years, I was free from its grasp.

Together, we had appeared in Beauty’s bedroom as she slept away, slumbering peacefully and unknowingly. And together, we marveled not at her loveliness, but at how much damage there was to be done.

The Beast gave me its scissors and guided my hands. Slowly, vigilantly, we began by plucking her hair from its roots. The next few nights, the Beast showed me how to bend and hook her nose. The week after, it showed me what I needed to do to widen the gaps of her front teeth. But my favorite was making her gain weight. First just grams and then entire ounces of fat, straight to her belly. And Beauty always responded the same way: eating less and less until she was going full days with nothing but water. I could almost hear her salivate as she watched others eating during lunchtime.

I thought making her ugly would be enough to satisfy me but watching her struggle to prevent it all was so much more exhilarating. Seeing her finally have to hide, like I have been doing, was true vindication.

What I had not accounted for though was the Prince’s reaction. Or rather, lack thereof. He made no comment of her fading color, her bulging waistline, her receding hairline. I knew he was kind and thoughtful and I loved him so much for it, but for once, I wanted him to be spiteful and cruel. I needed him to be disgusted. Just be honest and tell her how awful she truly looks!

Instead, my naïve darling still loved her.

“He is a perceptive one, this Prince of yours,” the Beast said. “Destroying her from the outside will not be enough. We must maim her from the inside as well.”

“Show me how,” was my only response.

Now, new lessons with the Beast began. Cracking her nails and snipping her muscles wasn’t enough; now, we could open her up and commit some real misery.

We found her patience and chiseled away at it. We found her sense of accountability and tarnished it. What little honesty and genuineness she had, night by night, we poisoned it. We bound up and restricted her compassion, we silenced her gratitude for others, and threw away all of her respect and humility.

With the Beast’s tools, we destroyed her loyalty. Gone, gone away and never to come back.

Now, at last, I was seeing the results I had craved for. My Prince was now looking at Beauty with distrustful eyes, felt humiliation for how she treated others, and no longer respected the things she was saying. It stung me, I must admit, to see him so hurt by the horrible things that Beauty would insult him with. But he needed to know the truth about her.

And thankfully, one day, he left. And I knew he wouldn’t come back, now that she was ugly like me, for all the world to see.

Oh, and how she cried and cried, like it wasn’t her fault. Poor Beauty ran away into the bathroom, bawling her eyes out, while the Beast and I watched on, unable to hide our amusement.

For the first time in a very long time, Beauty looked at me. She no longer averted her gaze or hid behind her hair, but turned to face me with furious red eyes streaming with tears. “Why are you doing this to me?” she screamed. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Just let me be happy?”

Ah, so she knew. Just as I had been aware of the Beast, she must’ve seen me atop of her chest, pinning her down, tearing her apart. “Because I won’t rest until everyone sees what I see. Someone who’s a monster. A freak. Someone who is just plain ugly.”

That set her off. Beauty punched at the mirror, shattering her reflection. But even through all the cracks, I could still see her. Even if she covered up every mirror, hid away from every photo of her, avoided all cameras, she’d always know that I’d be there, looking back at her. And I would smile and tell her the truth, no matter how desperately she would try to deny it.

She is Ugly.