Hallelujah

I still stood in the bathroom in my pretty little bra and miniskirt. My eyes were taken suddenly by the marble vanity, by all my toiletries lain across it. My hair straightener to one side, all my special European hair pomades and hair gels, no-clump waterproof mascara, many little
tubes of lipstick ranging from clear to petal pink to blood red, nail polish lined up by colour and size like little bottled soldiers, my many, many, many different shades of eyeshadow (I get very indecisive.). Everything all organized perfectly in straight lines and piles.

See the animal in his cage that you built
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?
See the safety of the life you have built
Everything where it belongs
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart
And it's all
Right where it belongs. . .

I tore my eyes away from all my products and looked into the mirror, lost myself on the other side as I stepped closer. The face, it wasn't me at all. I gasped sharply in recognition. It was my face. My old face. It was the girl with inflammatory acne marring her otherwise pasty skin, the girl with chipmunk cheeks, yellow teeth, messy eyebrows, a small, lopsided chest. I brought a hand disbelievingly to my face and felt soft, uneven flesh instead of a stark cheekbone under skin. Shit. My little sausage fingers slid to the bridge of my nose, running over the large bump and angle of it. Double shit.

What if all the world's inside of your head
Just creations of your own?
Your devils and your gods
All the living and the dead
And you're really all alone?
You can live in this illusion
You can choose to believe
You keep looking but you can't find the woods
While you're hiding in the trees. . .

I shook my head hard, the shoulder-length dishwater blonde hair I used to have slapping me momentarily in my ugly, ugly face. A hand fell to my thick, fat waist. It was not the little hourglass shape it should be, that every little girl dreamed of and few ever had to determination to receive. My ass was back to being huge and thighs as dimpled as cottage cheese. I squeezed hard at the expanded flesh, wanting nothing more than to just tear it off and throw it away. I couldn't go back to this. This pain, this hatred and pain.

My vision returned to eyes, still the bright olive green, huge with fear. They were rimmed blood red from crying. You see, ugly girls never find reasons to be happy, only to cry and hide away in their rooms to hide their horrible personalities. I couldn't bear thinking of going back to my old life. The life where my emotionally abusive parents shaped my pain and ignored by silent cries for help. Both their ignorance and the constant taunting of all the other children in elementary, middle and high school, caused me to hate who I was. I'd tried to end that life so many times. I couldn't go back to being like that. Tears of self-pity brimmed my already red eyes and spilled over my horrid face. I closed my eyes tightly, shook my head again and tried so hard not to just break down. What if I stayed like this? What would Brian think? What would anyone think? Hell, only Val would be happy. Everyone else would be just as disgusted as I was.

What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is that all you want to be?

When I reopened my eyes, it was again my real face, the face and body of Cady At Twenty-Four. I was all eyes and cheekbones, the anomaly of pretty I'd paid dearly for. I'd done so much to ensure that my life would be perfect. That I would have the perfect appearance, the right friends, the most coveted lovers. I wiped with a shaking hand at the tears dyed black from eyeliner.

All I am is an illusion.
I'm hair products and well-done makeup, softly smiling lips and unnaturally white teeth, dyed hair and the perfect slope of a surgically corrected nose. I am designer clothes tailored to me and me only, expensive high heels and hours spent at the gym and dieting, eating mountains of lettuce, throwing back gallons of Starbucks.

I was as close to perfect as I could get. But I still had that little voice in the back of my head to tell me that I should die. Some things will never change, no matter how much you prod at them. . .

What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?