You've never been pretty. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying to your face. Try as they might, they can't make you believe them- not your sister who'd apologized as if she could help being the preferred offspring, not your various boyfriends whose sweet words so frequently dissolve into anger and abuse. They've never had enough evidence to contend with your reflection in the mirror.
On the surface, you know it's all bullshit anyway, the idea that a woman has to look pretty in order to mean anything to anyone. But it's not like the men you've known ever subscribed to that viewpoint. Or like your mother, with her constant criticisms, ever cared to understand. Sometimes it makes you feel all jumpy and nervous when you're in public, and you hate that more than anything. At work, your stomach clenches if a customer so much as side-eyes you, or raises their eyebrows for a second. You want to shout: If I COULD change, don't you think I would have by now?
Your fundamental lack of comfort in your own skin is like some kind of demonic entity, clinging to you for dear life. It pushes you to cake concealer on your face, because you're almost thirty fucking years old and you're still breaking out like a depressed teenager. It forces you to spend hours in the bathroom, applying and removing your lipstick until you're sure you've got it right, you won't color outside the lines. It convinces you to drop a sizable amount of your paycheck on clothes that will flatter your figure, hair dye in every shade because you never know how you're going to wake up feeling. Maybe today you're purple, maybe tomorrow, orange is the way to go. Your demon nudges you every time you step on a scale, reminding you that you're only a couple pounds away from a major freak-out, even though you've promised yourself not to deny yourself food ever again.
And because of your demon, you're left screaming in the street at 2 AM, informing the most recent man to walk out of your life of all the reasons he's given you to hate him. He calls you a psycho bitch, slams his bottle on the ground, and never looks back. You see your twisted face reflected back in its shards as you collapse in tears, and you've never felt so repulsive in your life.
At 3 AM you're barricading the front door with your body, as if that would keep him from coming back, rather than the fact that he doesn't want to. Your hand is shaking despite the cigarette you're holding, and as you suck smoke into your lungs you swear you can still taste him in the back of your throat.
It's not his fault, you remind yourself. It's mine. It's mine. Because it is. Because your exterior isn't all that's ugly. Your inner self emerged with all its issues, carried around like a garbage back slung over your shoulder. He was gone the moment you'd exposed your tics and insecurities, pushed away at your demon's urging. Dealing with a fractured person is always too much for a man who's not whole himself.
If only there was some kind of signal to give when meeting a new person. A beacon flashing over your head: I'M NOT GONNA SOLVE YOUR PROBLEMS IF I CAN'T EVEN SOLVE MY OWN. Not that they'd ever get that. One look at you, and they're feverishly creating narratives in which you play the supporting role to their leading man, swooping in to save him from himself. They never believe that you're just as fucked-up as they are until you fly off the handle at some shit they say or do. Then you're no longer darling Clementine. Then you're just another crazy ex-girlfriend who deserves to be dumped on her ass.
You start washing up the dishes at 4, scattering the remnants of the last meal you'd shared with him. Thank God tomorrow is the weekend- whatever that means. Maybe you'll go thrifting tomorrow. Or head out to a park or something. Or change your hair color. Anything to keep from thinking about what went wrong, or how to answer the age-old question of what do you want?
What you really want, you think as you slide into bed, which still smells like him- what you really want is nice. You want someone who isn't going to treat you like shit. You want someone who'd never dream of telling you that you look better naked, or that you should shut up because you're embarrassing them in public. You want a man who'll put his arms around you, not because you expect him to, but because he wants to. You don't deserve nice, but by God, would it make you happy to have it.
But you don't have it, so you cuddle up with your demon, because it's the only thing that refuses to abandon you. And you go to sleep wishing to find someone, something, that could drown its voice out for just one day, allowing you to breathe freely at last.
AN: I didn't like Clementine the first time I saw this movie, but I've grown to feel sympathetic towards her, likely because I've known women who remind me of her. This could be an original story just as much as it's a fic.