Layers

• Isabella Ashworth, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2018

People say that I am different. They say I am not worthy of friends, of family, of life itself… They don’t understand what I have gone through. I know it sounds selfish, but I wish that they were the people that had suffered like I had. They didn’t know what it was like to lose everything in less than a second… Life had never been easy for me. I had been bullied, teased, taunted, you get the picture. I have been told I am a nothing. I have been made feel like I am a nothing. I am a nothing… No, I am not!
I have been told that I am not pretty, that I am ugly… Someone even told me to kill myself... For what reason, I am still unsure. Girls all over the world have been abused and bullied for just that, being a girl. We have been told we have to cover our flaws, and act dumb for boys, but that is a lie. But if it is a lie, why do we do it?
I hovered behind in class, hiding my imperfect face, slowly packing away my things. I walked out alone. I hung my head low, my black hoodie covering my face. The rain outside had still not eased. Walking in the rain, the day’s events slowly crossed my mind, vivid and painful. Teasing, taunting, the lot. My average day. The cold chill from the rain slowly seeped into my bones, blood and skin. It was a blanket, icy, but it protected me, slightly, from the unforgiving hurt I was feeling. I arrived home at my apartment. I threw my bag on the floor, on top of the rubbish bag I was meant to take out that morning. I didn’t care. Why would I?
I ran to my room, tears threatening to spill out onto my cheeks. I slammed the door shut, a dull echo sounding around the empty space. I slumped over to my bathroom sink, stared in the mirror at my reflection gazing back at me and saw a stranger. They had the same shaped nose, same eye colour, same lips, same reversed smile… but that wasn’t me in the mirror… I mean, it looked like me I guess, but my face was so unrecognisable. The layers that I had caked onto my perfect skin made me look like a clown. At least, that’s what I thought. The other girls would have loved it if I had been able to lift my head. I began to wash off the layers. Mascara, lip-gloss, eyeshadow, eyeliner, lip-liner, foundation… It all came off, mixing together to become a kaleidoscope of my fears and the hatred of everyone that had ever hurt me. I cautiously glanced up to admire my reflection. I saw my face. Pure, natural and bare. The person I truly was, stood before. Tears ran down my cheeks. I couldn’t be who I wanted to be. Not now, not ever. But why?