Who would want what was already broken? Trash, ruined and worthless, who could ever desire trash? She saw it so as to that's all she was now, just a shattered reflection of who she formally was. That's what he made her, and no matter WHO she was seen as, no matter how beautiful she was preserved by the vile beings. She knew what lurked beneath the empty shell, keeping it mostly secrete, so depressed, so low, that nobody could ever want anything from her. So she closed off completely, she heard everything said about her, and stored it in a separate part of her brain but the whispers continued. She knew she was beautiful, but there was nothing behind that beauty, she became a shallow puddle, swirling around and around and around.
Every morning she did everything perfect, even though she knew she didn't have to do a thing. She did her hair the same exact way her mother taught her so long ago, the style seemed timeless. She glossed her lips, dressed in the dresses that she and her mom hand stitched she, prodded the earrings, slipped the leggings and strapped on the heals. Finally she moved to her eyes, she shouldn't bother, she knew it wouldn't help, and she hated them. They weren't her more than anything else, more than the skin or the texture, or even the alien beauty. So she drowned them in black, hoping to lighten the odd shade just a bit, hoping, but knowing that they would never be the former color, but if only they could lighten just a bit then, she could be happy.