So this is just a very sad drabble which probably makes very little sense. Inspired by this poem:
6 years old.
Blue ribbon, silk ribbon
Streaming through my hair.
Pigtail, toothless smile;
Mirror am I pretty yet?
10 years old.
Ponytail, Bobby pins,
Taming my messy hair.
Chubby thighs, crooked smile;
Mirror am I pretty yet?
14 years old.
Straight hair, lipstick,
Make-up running down my face.
Trembling knees, broken smile;
Mirror am I pretty yet?
16 years old.
Messy bun, chapped lips,
Sobbing eyes and Bloody wrists.
Bony thighs and fake smile;
Mirror am I pretty yet?
If anyone has a spare few minutes I highly recommend going off and listening to this song. It`s terribly heart-breaking, but beautiful. Its called Deadly Beauty by Faces without Names.
"Mother, am I pretty?" a seemingly innocent question, asked by a far more innocent bright eyed girl, asked in the naïve way a child only could manage. There was no fear behind the words, no anxiety. None. That was to come much later as she grew. Six years old with crimson silk gathering her hair into perfect pigtails, a gap-toothed grin and pale, unblemished skin.
"No, my darling, Misa."
The child frowned, eyes watering.
"You are beautiful, darling. Your beauty outshines even that of the moon, always remember that. It is a woman`s job to be beautiful."
Aged six her obsession began.
"A woman`s job is to be beautiful." she reminded herself constantly. "I must be so beautiful that even the moon will be envious."
She went about her daily routine, brushing her soft golden locks, smiling sweetly and playing with her pretty dolls. Everyone who met her said she was the cutest little girl they had ever seen. Misa would giggle and curtsey cutely.
Aged eleven she was thrust into the spotlight. An advertising job, for some new electronic gismo. Then a one line role in a television drama. Heavy makeup, meticulously styled hair and tiny skirts played a large part of her new routine. The praise came rushing in. Admired by all and loved by many she bloomed. Compliments. How she lived for them, thrived on them. There was no longer any time for play so her dolls were locked away in cardboard prisons and thrust into some dark corner somewhere to be forgotten.
Two years later she was introduced to a stern faced woman with a bitter tongue. Her new manager. Soon she was told how to do everything, and of course, what not to do. Down to the simplest things, such as how to dress and how to style her hair. What to eat and what not to eat.
"You can`t eat cake, silly girl! Cake makes you fat and nobody but nobody wants to hire a fat, ugly girl."
Every so often she would repeat the long ago question. "Am I pretty?"
The woman would scoff. "You will be." Was always the response.
She tried asking her boyfriend the same question, he would nod absently and shy away from any form of her affections. He loved her, she hoped. He was her prince, her knight in shining armour.
Somewhere along the way Misa had decided to ban all food bar from tiny, limp salads and water. By age sixteen, only the water remained. When she ate, she felt like a failure, no longer beautiful. If she was no longer beautiful, Light wouldn't love her and he would move on to someone prettier, skinnier, more desirable. Like Takada, he sure had been spending a lot of time with her recently.
"I Mustn`t eat, if I get fat I`ll be ugly and if I`m ugly no one will ever love me. I shall have no worth. And I want to be beautiful."
Hours crouched over a toilet, time spent weighting her fragile body. The days spent sobbing in front of a mirror, her makeup like a second skin staining her face, the images warped by her weary mind. She hid her face under an inch of makeup, no one was allowed to see what little of her real self-remained behind the years of pain and doubt. This is what had become of the bright eyed child.
Six months later she was admitted for treatment, locked away just like her dolls.
Six months later she attempted to make it all go away. It had become too much, the constant strain, both mind and body. Her body was starved, her mind lost and desperate.
Two weeks later she was successful.
Lips painted the colour of rubies, chalk white skin and lifeless eyes. Jewels adorned her ears and bruised neck. Unmoving, she lay broken in an elaborate oak casket, hands folded over her chest as if she was praying to some unseen God.
In death, maybe she finally found her peace. Maybe she finally felt beautiful.