content warning: rather graphic self-harm, suicidal thoughts, mentions of rape. please do not continue if any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable.
you don't know you're beautiful
She stands under the shower spray, letting the water cascade down her dirty, matted hair. She can see the dirt being washed down the drain. The brown water pools around her feet.
Her toenails are long. She supposes that happens when one hasn't had access to such luxuries as nail clippers for weeks. There is dirt under the nails. Blood, too.
Blood. A shiver runs down her spine and she shakes violently, almost like a dog.
Dogs. She likes dogs. She can recall a dog from her childhood. Its name had been Jasmine, and it had only had three legs because one had been amputated from when a car ran over it.
Her mind returns to that day, the one that had ruined her life as she previously knew it. The day that she was Crucioed until she was a blubbering mess by a deranged witch — what was her name? — and then violated.
What happened to her? She used to be so happy and carefree. She used to run, and dance, and play, and talk to her invisible friends.
Now the only invisible things she has are the mental scars that day left on her.
She shakes again before reaching for the soap. She aggressively scrubs her skin with it. It isn't nice soap, the kind that she used to make. It's harsh and it smells like iron.
No. That's her blood.
Now the water is pink.
Pink.
No, she wants red.
Her eyes flit to the razor lying innocently on the shower shelf. She blinks, then crosses her eyes and shakes her head.
Bad thoughts.
She definitely isn't thinking of how easy it would be to just draw it along her throat and sit down in the shower. She isn't considering leaning her feverish forehead against the cool tiles and giving up. Giving in to the numbness.
No.
She can't. The war isn't over. Her friends need her.
Her friends need her.
Need her.
Her.
Why does anyone need her? Why does anyone associate themselves with her?
She is impure.
Tainted.
Broken.
Shattered.
Irreparably so.
He had done that to her.
She glances longingly at the razor. She knows it's meant for her legs, which must look a fright by now, but she doesn't care.
Soapy fingers reach for it. Clumsy, numb ones drop it.
The blade scrapes the top of her foot. She barely feels the pain. She embraces the pain that she does.
More. She needs more.
She picks the blade up — it separated from the handle from its fall — and raises it to her throat.
No. Too obvious. She can't wear turtlenecks everyday.
She drops the hand clutching the blade to her weist. Presses it in ever so slightly. Watches the skin beneath it turn white as the blood is forced away from the pressure point.
Do it, a voice urges. Now, before someone comes looking for you.
"Shut up," she murmurs back.
She draws it across the pale skin on the inside corner. The cut is barely a half inch, but it's deep and already she feels relief. Blood seeps from the wound. It's bright. It's pretty. She tilts her head as she admires it.
That was enough for now. She doesn't need anyone to notice.
She rinses the blade under the water, watching the crimson liquid drip from the sharp edge into the water below, swirling to turn the perfect shade of rose, like the clouds at sunset. It's an odd comparison. Then again, she's always been odd.
The cut stings. She welcomes the feeling. At least she can feel something.
She steps out of the shower. Her hair is still matted. Maybe she can ask someone to chop it off. It just reminds her of how he had pulled it. She inspects the cut. She can see more blood welling up in it.
Long-sleeved shirts it is, then.
author's notes: the title for this story was very deliberately chosen. you are beautiful, no matter what you've done or who you are or what you have. you are beautiful, period. don't ever let anyone convince you you're not.