International Love

Prologue

My reflection in the mirror looks back at me. Icy blue eyes stare at each other through the glass. Brown hair cascades like a chocolate waterfall down from my shoulders, so effortlessly, as though I do not care about the curly ringlets that adorn my head. A tender, manicured hand reaches up to pluck a stray hair from an eyelash. My slender white and black outfit hides all the scars that make me who I am. My mask of makeup conceal some of the red lashes that cut across my cheekbones. But no one is to know that. No one is to know that I cry myself to sleep most nights. No one is to know that I wear long sleeves to veil the damages I try to forget. 

The bell rings. School is over. A fake smile, used too frequently, creeps onto my face. I look happy, a girl with not a care in the world, a girl who eats healthy and is friend to all. I do not look like myself. I look like a fake barbie, someone who is trying desperately to forget a pastime, a long lost dream. Someone who is an all around beautiful girl who everyone adores. I am not me.

Someone opens the bathroom door. They laugh out a greeting, holding out a hand for a high five. I do not know this person, but they know me. This happens all the time. I am known as the wonderful girl who will be your friend if you ask of them. I must have said yes to this girl when she inquired. 

I slap my hand against hers, smiling and saying, "How goes it?" before sliding into a bathroom stall. I sit on the toilet seat as the girl tells me something. I listen, agreeing whenever a hesitation is present, and finally the girl leaves, calling a goodbye as the door slides closed behind her. 

Knowing I cannot stay in the safety of the bathroom forever, I unlock the stall entrance and step out. Once again my reflection stares at me. I want to linger here, conscious that if I leave, I will once again be subjected to smiles and stares and playful greetings. I will talk and laugh as though everything is perfect. I will nod and be sympathetic when it is necessary. I will walk the halls as though I own this high school and am perfectly at home within it's walls. I will tell everyone with my body language that everything is about me is flawless. I am unsurpassable. All must hail me. I will walk with my chin held high.

But it is not me. Nothing is me anymore. If I had a choice, I would bury my face in my hand and cry every day. If it were up to me, I would hide in the back of the classroom and tears would run down my cheeks from time to time. If I had a choice, I would say nothing, but only watch as the popular people make it known that they are the owners of this school. 

But I do not have a choice. And that is why nothing is me anymore.