Hello my marvalicious readers! I just want you to know, that, despite the Mr. thing, I am a girl. So if any of you are wondering why the writer of this fan fic sounds feminine, it's not because I'm trying to come out of the closet gradually. It's because I AM feminine. Sometimes.
Disclaimer: I do not own these people and stuff. They're all Libba's doing. And may I just say that she ROCKS! In fact, lets take a moment of silence, in her honor.
Also, if you guys don't review, I will be hurt. Crushed, even. Flames are welcome, because my philosophy is, if you don't like it, than I don't care. So, whatever you want to say, fire away. Hey, that rhymed. Cool, I'm a poet too! Well, enjoy!
Beauty. Such a blessing in most eyes, and yet, I find myself repulsed by it. A reason to want, a reason to lust, that's all it is. That's all I am. This morning, I pass my mirror trying, as always, to avoid the face residing there. And, as always, my efforts are in vain. As I stare at my reflection, a feeling of betrayal overwhelms me. Envious eyes follow my procession to and from my classes. Never a kind word, never a friendly smile. I am greeted only with animosity, with spite. And for what? A face I would gladly trade with any of these jealous wretches has earned me the enmity of my fellows. Would they still desire it, I wonder, if they knew the price it comes with. A price all the "uncles" of the world come to collect on.I think not.
I dress myself, avoiding my looking glass as best I can. I sigh as I try, and fail once again, to lace my own personal prison. It is a burden, having to tie my own corset each morning. I cling to this simple woe, as if my life depends on it. Or my sanity. As well it may. As well it may.
I make my way to the breakfast room, head down as if to protect myself from the burning glares of the white clad figures surrounding me. They seem to blur together, a wall of white skirts and condemning faces, and then, for one horrible moment, I glimpse, from the corner of my eye, a child clothed in an oversized apron clutching at a ragged doll. The charred remains of her flesh flakes as her face contorts into a sick parody of a grin. I blink, and the image fades. Shaking my head, I speed up, until I am running through the halls of Spence, fleeing shadows and specters, and, more than anything, myself. Suddenly I am in the breakfast room, and sitting down in my seat. Mine is a lonely table, set for one. Always for one. Mrs. Nightwing speaks, and I, along with the rest of Spence Academy, turn to listen.
"I would like to introduce Ms. Felicity Worthington, our newest addition to Spence. She will be in third class, and I trust you'll acquaint her with the way things are done here."
She sits down, and my attention is abruptly caught by the "newest addition". While Mrs. Nightwing was talking, she had been examining her nails for scuffs, turning them in the light, and doing everything but listening to our headmistress. Now she looks up, and I see a pale, beautiful face framed by white blonde hair, gilded silver by the waxing light of morning. Her ice blue eyes lock onto mine for one breathless instant, and I am reminded irresistibly of the tiger in the gypsy camp just outside of Spence. It's fire leashed, but never quenched. My gaze falls to the hands in my lap. More than anything, I wish I had that power, that raw strength. But I am weak, and my eyes will never hold that intensity. I am a flower, fit to be looked at, admired, and nothing more. The first breath of wind will uproot me. Perhaps this Felicity will be different. Perhaps she'll understand my plight. She is, after all, beautiful too. We might be kindred spirits. Both plagued by the perils of beauty. Even as I thought this, I didn't know how true it was. We were both hurt by beauty. We were both scarred.