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Caroline forgot the last time she felt beautiful.
The sense of polished, unattained perfection that brought a feeling of worth. Something to be proud of.
Caroline was rarely proud of herself.
Sitting on this bench, in meticulous curls and a dress she was far, far too old for, she tried to look for the ounce of prettiness in the reflection.
When she was a teen, she found beauty to be a good shield.
That flattering makeup that plumped her lips and pinkened her cheeks made for a good mask, that the confidence and authority it brought with it spun into a spectacular bravado to hide behind. Her perfect blonde curls were snakes of Medusa, her heels sharpened blades and the delicacy in her manicured hands an excellent right hook.
It hid the tears that stained her cheeks, the way her delicate hands wrung, the eye bags that hung the weight of her sins and the scars that made a patchwork sky on her body.
All this makeup, the effortless curls pinned up on her head, the pride that adorns her untouchable features, the sleek way she wears her grace.
A mask.
She thinks back to the night she was tortured. Back to picking out wooden bullets and dabbing the everlasting stain of vervain on her perfect, perfect skin. Her sobs weren't poised, not graceful and elegant, nor the way her spine curved from the pain and the way she let the bullets make a home in her body as she bled and bled.
It tainted the untouchable perfection of her mask, of Head Cheerleader Caroline, of Miss Mystic Falls Caroline, of Pretty (not beautiful - never beautiful) Caroline.
Yet even as she weeped, beaten and bloody, she find a twisted kind of beauty in the way she held her shoulders even as bullets dug into her skin, how she schooled her trembling lip into submission as all of her nerves went haywire.
Caroline found the strength that had never been quite so evident beautiful.
She found she couldn't see any of that strength, in the pretty, pretty Caroline in the mirror, with smiled-off worries and flowers in her hair that matched the tinge in her cheeks.
This Caroline, a girl in a dress far too young for her, lying at her reflection with glimmering teeth and shining blue eyes, wasn't strong.
A tear slid down her artfully pinkened cheeks.
She wondered if she would become a doll on a shelf. A trophy to be held. Because if it was so easy to shape and burn the flaws in her face, in her personality, would it be easy for someone else to? Would it be so simple for them to mould her into, whatever pretty, quiet, submissive picture they wanted to see?
And maybe she'd let them. Because, maybe, they could help her find beauty in herself.
(Or, even carve it out for her. She wouldn't mind.)
Because that's what she'd been taught to do. Let them play in her wounds, let them swing her like a toy, let them steal and take whatever they found pretty and not flawed.
Because at least it made her pretty.
(Not beautiful - never beautiful.)
But, then, she look closer at her reflection. Past her flaws and her pores and her imperfections. She'd see the tilt of her chin. The resolve built in her delicate shoulders, the determination burned into her eyes, the way her lips could be painted a pretty pink and still curl into a vicious snarl.
And then a memory of finding that glimpse of beauty that was better than cooed praise and a painted mask of smooth skin and pink lips. The fire in her eyes, in her smile and in her walk, the way she commanded attention and intrigue, was much more beautiful than someone else's appraisal.
Caroline wasn't a prize for the winner.
She was a prize for herself. For the war in her head and the strength in her stare.
For the girl in the mirror.
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a distant (ridiculously profround) AU with an insight into a character that could be (or would have been).