Brutal Truths

Brutal Truths (short story)

She was a short and pudgy little girl, round face with chubby cheeks and multiple overlapping chins that made her largely resemble a shar-pei dog. She was far from an adorable little puppy however. The premature wrinkles on her forehead and eyes outlined her face being only further accentuated by the pounds of makeup caked on in the poor attempts to make herself look decent. Her eyes were deeply sunken and the dark circles around them made it appear as if she hadn’t had a good night's sleep in years. Underneath her chunky glasses were two dysfunctional spheres that always seemed to be slimy with tears. Nothing was in her favour, not her eyes, not her smile, not her anything.

Since she was such a short girl, you could have confused her for a goblin trying to pass as a human with the way she presented herself. Her back was hunched worse than Quasimodo's, though she should have been the one to be locked up due to being hideous. No one deserved that kind of dreadful and cruel punishment. The more you look at her the worse and clear illusion start to break through. The girl had endless rolls of fat that engulfed every inch on her skin which added to her already disproportionate body making her a runner up for the next Michelin tire mascot. The fat was always visible on her back, legs, arms, gut, everywhere you don’t want to have it. Even with her never obvious, never ending pursuit of hiding it., the stretch marks that encapsulated her body were on constant display despite the corsets, cheap off brand clothing that never managed to fit her an okay way.  

Her self deprecating body language desperately screamed “don’t look at me!” but how could you not look away? It is impossible not to. When there is a monstrosity in front of you, something that does not belong, people will always look. They will always judge. They should. Someone like her does not deserve to have the civility of a normal person. She is an abomination.

She began to sob under my gaze. Pathetic. Her weeping echoed throughout, bouncing off the bathroom walls, only accentuating the appalling snorts and cries that originated from her open mouth.

A sudden bang on the bathroom door startled me away from my brutal criticism, “Are you done already? I need to shower!” My sister whine.

“Just a minute,” I responded with a shaky voice. I brought my focus back to the to the to the reflective piece of metal that tauntingly hung before me. I fucking loathed mirrors. They can’t sugar coat, they can’t lie to protect my feelings, all they can show me is the brutal truth. Which I hated the most about them because they truthfully show me what I am. I’m revolting and I despise who I am.