On the outside, I'm just another popular girl, adored, loved, worshipped even. On the outside, I am beautiful, alluring, prepossessing. I bewitch and beguile. I am artistic, graceful, appealing, and exquisite. I am a one-of-a-kind.
Yet on the inside, I know I hunger for pain and torment. I laugh and watch, with delicious, lustful desire, the suffering I cause. I smile in the face of agony, and drink in the moments of discomfort.
I have caused this. The meaning of pain is my name. I know that I can't take it all back, the hurt and the aches. The scars and the abuse will always be there. And I know that I have watched with pitiless, emotionless eyes.
Perhaps it comes from my father. Everything seems to come from him; the blemishes, the marks on my skin, the injuries he afflicted me with throughout my youth. Maybe my aspiration for pain and humiliation comes from him. He certainly enjoyed watching me suffer.
But whatever it is, I know I am somehow inhuman. I do not feel the pain that they do. I have no sympathy, sorrow, or pity. I look on with an implacable expression, showing no mercy. I delight in their grief and heartache.
I am the Nameless Girl.
YOU ARE READING
The Nameless Girl
Non-FictionHer job was simple. Find someone cute and adorable . . . someone popular and already dating. Friend them on Facebook . . . get them to fall in love with you . . . Then break their heart. Only it becomes a problem when you actually fall in love.
