Beauty and The Beast

Like the age-old quandary about the chicken and the egg, I often wondered which came first:  the name or her good looks?   Bella: She seemed naturally pretty, like it wasn’t forced or anything but with all that makeup  (it seemed ‘artist’ now was a very board term, stretching further away from the truth, a Pangea broken into a million pieces) and clever trickery, it was getting harder and harder to see the truth.

The trouble with this girl I speak of, is that if she is truly as beautiful as her appearance had enchanted us all to believe, then she contradicts every cliche since beauty had become important – probably since man’s time on earth had began: beauty is only skin deep; never judge a book by it’s cover and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I could go on: her beauty, if it was possible, seemed to run through her veins.

Of course she was popular.  She was part of the crowd, and instead of a a needle in a haystack, she was a sun, the planets orbiting her.  I often wondered how she felt about having this power over us; there was no way it could have escaped her attention, the attention, the eyes, constantly on her, every single being drawn to her to her by the forces of gravity.

To her, I was a cloud of gas, invisible to the naked eye but always looming, clinging to her fresh air.   She had plenty of friends in classes, in school and out of school and she didn’t need to know or make an effort with those of us on the edge; she wasn’t obliged to rescue anyone from the depths of loneliness and cruelty that comes with being a teenager, she was kind enough not to rub her good fortune in our wounds.

That was until today.  Until she needed me more than she’d needed anyone or anything.  I had become her air.


This is the first instalment of a piece I am currently writing.  Let me know if you would like to hear more 🙂

 

 

 

 

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