The Angry Duckling

Once upon a time in the tumultous waters of high school, an ugly duckling longed to swim in a pond full of the most beautiful swans. Though beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder, the flock had long ago decided that the duckling was too different to belong to their kind. Only eighteen years of age, her little wings had grown weary from trying to catch up to her peers. Day after day, she paddled twice as hard as the others, yet she always fell behind.

This duckling was, of course, a young girl. And high school, with all its jagged edges, was less a swan lake and more a shark tank. But as all tales of outcasts do, hers began with crushing solitude.

She wasn’t invited to parties, and she had never been on a date. Among all the jabs and spiteful whispers, the loneliness was the hardest part to bear. It clawed its way deep into her heart, leaving a path of desperation in its wake. She yearned for someone - anyone - to cast a benevolent gaze on her, one that wasn’t full of derision and judgement.

When one of the swans introduced her to a boy, her heart rejoiced. Had the time for change finally come? The flock convinced her of his merits, and though the world had given her reasons to doubt, her trusting eyes had not yet dimmed. Filled with nerves and excitement, she fixed her hair and put on her finest gown, ready to meet him.

But this is no fairytale. The boy was no knight in shining armor. Such men are rare in a world that is so casually cruel to young women. 

The flock orchestrated it all, eager to witness the comedic tragedy. But they knew how to hide their intentions in a shroud of encouragement. The girl, too blinded by her hope, never saw their wolfish grins. She smiled obediently when he made snide comments about her figure. She didn’t laugh when he ordered pineapple juice, though the others did. Because they understood. Unease crept in, but she brushed it aside. Instead, she imitated the swans she so desperately wanted to join.

The boy offered to drive her home. But when he missed the correct turns and drove to the darkest of forests instead, the carriage in her head slowly revealed itself to be a cage.

He asked her whether she was afraid, a smirk curling his lips. She tried to deflect, to make light of the situation. Fear coursed through her veins, but to her own shame, she still worried about the story he might carry back to the pond. Somewhere inside, she clung to the belief that this was just a detour— her happy ending was still within reach.

But then the boy spread his arms wide and said that no one would hear her scream. He was smiling still, but now she was almost certain that his teeth were fangs. All the girl could think of was a bear. A big bear with bloody claws and an angry roar. 

I would choose the bear.

I would choose the bear.

I would choose the bear.

And this was when the fairytale truly ended. It was the moment her eyes fully opened. Alone in the dark, without weapons or allies, she made a choice. Go along willingly and escape unscathed. But was it really a choice? Or is compliance in the face of implied violence no choice at all?

  The first kiss was quick, perfunctory—an act that mocked intimacy. She told him she was a virgin. His condescending laugh felt like an ice-cold blade against her skin. She wondered whether he could taste the fear on her lips. And if he did, would it even dissuade him or tempt him further?

Her feeble protest went unanswered. She was no longer just a pawn in a cruel game—now she was a trophy to be claimed. 

She had never noticed just how loud the sound of a zipper could be. She didn’t dare look down, unwilling to confront the scene unfolding in front of her. The hand in her hair pushed her head down with just enough force to seal her fate. It was over in a matter of minutes. 

But five minutes in hell can still feel like an eternity. Five minutes that resulted in a lifetime of remembered sounds and tastes. The scales of trauma are never in your favour. And when a body is breached without consent, the scars linger forever.

The girl thought her ordeal was over, and yet, the boy expected another performance. When the boy half-heartedly touched her, all the while wearing a smug smile that would burned an ugly image into her brain. He wanted to believe her lost in pleasure, for his sake, not for hers, because that would make it alright, would it not? And so she performed her act, while fear was chasing liquid fear through her veins. While she was reciting the names of missing and murdered women in her head. While she prayed to any entity that listened that she would not join their ranks. Not today.

   For every woman, there comes a moment when she realises that, to some men, she is nothing but prey. And she knows that it’s not all men but what does that matter when the pain that comes with this knowledge is infinite?

When the girl returned to the pond, expecting to be one of the swans, they swam even farther away from her than before. Perhaps the pain would even have been worth the price of belonging, had the tide not turned against her. The boy had already spun a tale where she was cast as the villain of the dark forest. They branded her with a scarlet letter and shut her out entirely

For years, the overwhelming shame kept her silent and threaten to pull her underwater. She told herself it was her fault. But one day, she found The Sea - a vast, welcoming expanse filled with beautiful, unique ducklings, just like her. They bore broken hearts and ruffled feathers, yet their spirits remained unbeaten. And they embraced her as she was. 

She never turned into a swan. But in The Sea, she didn’t need to. She had found her place.