True Beauty

Three

She stood in front of the crate that contained her entire wardrobe: her two simple dresses, aside from the one she wore. She was the daughter of a dressmaker, but her mother died before she could learn anything. She couldn't sew, prepare food or clean. She wasn't fashionable enough or pretty enough to be considered a house maker. She'd be the worst wife. 

She wanted to be a teacher; married to a successful and good-looking man; a man who would love and take care of her no matter what, forever. But that would was only in her dreams. She was impossible to love. No man would ever want a terrible wife unless she was pretty, and pretty she was not. Intelligence or talent had nothing on beauty. She'd be lucky to marry a widow 20 years older who was in need of a mother for his children. 

Sighing, she closed the crate and turned to examine herself in the mirror. She hated it, but Harry insisted she buy that wooden-framed, meter-tall thing. She wasn't pretty or a genius like Stacia. She wasn't a helper like Jennifer. She wasn't clever like Harry or a romantic like James. She wasn't even brave and courageous enough to become an outlaw like Annemarie or David. She felt the outcast of the family was her, not her oldest siblings, who were characteristically uninvolved at the law firm. Why would she want to take pride in herself by looking in a mirror? 

She'd be lucky if someone thought she was more attractive than that untrustworthy, teratoid, beady-eyed, savage lawyer. He intimidated her to no end, though she was easily his weight. Looking in a mirror depressed her, making her want to crawl back into bed and never leave it. But staying in bed wouldn't help anything.  

Today, however, looking in the mirror was different. She felt prettier. 

An extremely tight corset shaped her large body underneath her dress. The dress was three years old; it was the last gift she'd ever received from her father. Though it was a plain, lavender colour, it was her favourite dress to wear. It complimented her unusually olive skin tone well, where most dresses were made for pale complexions.  

Her eyes wandered back to her curvy mid-section, making her smile slightly. She silently thanked Madeline from the across the hall. The middle-aged woman insisted she take it, arguing, "You're 16, I'm 38; who needs this more, dear?" 

She moved up to scrutinize her face. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, thinking of how many girls out there were prettier and better than her in so many ways. She was jealous of thousands of girls she doesn't even know.  

Why am I alive? she thought to herself. 

She turned her head to view the right side of her face; the side without an ugly mole taking centre stage. Her skin was smooth and dark for being English; most Englishwomen were pale or even porcelain, like Stacia, who wanted the dark skin her sister possessed. Both of her parents were pale, making her wonder where her slightly darker tone comes from. That was at least one pretty thing about her.  

Her eyes were unusually green as well, like Harry's. But hers were darker, more the colour of a gem, matching more closely with her mother's eyes. Her eyes were probably her best feature, though her incredibly bushy brows masked them. That brought her back to reality. She wasn't pretty, no matter how much she stood in front of a mirror and found her attractive features.  

"Bel, I wanted-" 

The woman stopped in the doorway and smiled at Bel in the mirror. "You look beautiful, darling. Are you meeting someone today?" 

She chuckled and shook her head. She wasn't one for conversation, but with Madeline, the words flowed. The childless woman would be the one thing Bel would miss about her horrific tenement. She wished she could take Madeline with her, but her neighbour would have none of it. She needed to stay and take care of the children down the hall, whose father worked all day and night while their mother lay coughing blood and dying from an incurable disease.