June Barcarole

She stumbled, footstep by footstep, toward the door. Weakened by her desire to have a glance, just one glance, of her oh so proclaimed beauty, she scuffled across the cold cement floor.

This is the story of a girl bound by vanity, a slave to jealousy, embalmed by dreams of being sought after; of being an object of envy and of desire; of being an instigator of insecurity.

This is the story of a girl who was born into this world with a face so maimed and so utterly distasteful the midwives who delivered her from her mother's womb crossed themselves before they dared lay a hand upon her for washing. This is the story of a girl who also had been, very ironically so, favoured by the hands of fate, so that she might come across a modern-day alchemist so skilful he was able to create a modern-day panacea, the perfect solution in her quest for beauty.

What was brought to life by the hands of this modern-day alchemist was by no means a quick and easy feat. It took the girl days, months, years of patience and keeping the faith in his promises; it took him days, months, years of fixing his gaze upon the prize of his labour. It was a curious thing, but for the discretion of the girl in question, and the dignity of this modern-day alchemist, the terms of their agreement shall not be disclosed.

The solution that came from the modern-day alchemist was a substance so pure it perfected her flawed features, but most of all, it encased her face in a thin crust of porcelain, so that she might have skin that could make her an object of envy and of desire, and she could be an instigator of insecurity in the women around her. The only catch, oh, and there was a catch, was that she could never ever catch a reflection of herself, inadvertent or purposeful, lest she face its most dire consequence, which she herself was not fully aware of.

The first few weeks came and went easily: she had her maids remove all mirrors, draw all curtains so that she appeared to be a modern-day vampire (if they ever existed at all), but she did not mind that at the very least. Better to be named a Dracula than a Quasimodo, she thought. Those first few weeks she had felt so on top of the world. Everywhere she went she had followers, admirers, wishing to take her hand for a one-night-stand. Everywhere she went, heads turned, and whispers and envious eyes tracked her every move. She felt, for once in her life, pretty.

Thence came that one fateful day, as the girl was busying herself in a windowless flower shop, searching for the most beautiful, perfect flowers to match her most beautiful, perfect face, when the dark clouds drew in and the sky started rumbling and the pitter-patter of raindrops became a downpour so heavy the unsuspecting pedestrians thought they were having a shower under the Niagara Falls. It was on this one fateful day when the girl slipped and fell as she exited the windowless flower shop and found herself face first in a puddle of rainwater. No, her face did not crack or break from the fall. Her face did crack, though, from her instinctive gathering herself up, causing her to catch an inadvertent glance of her reflection in the water. The consequence of that was not dire, however. That little gash was out of pure luck situated beneath her chin, and measured just a centimetre long,  no less, but trust the girl to exaggerate in her mind the size of it. She ran home, crying, feeling with her fingers the crack in her no-longer-perfect porcelain skin, refusing to let anyone see her with what she thought was a big gash across her face.

And so it began that the girl barricaded herself in a cell of her own device, afraid even to step out the front door lest she saw herself without warning again. With the growing onset of agoraphobia, the girl spent more and more time within the confinement of her mind, often times staring into space, recalling by force that flicker of an image of her face in the rainwater. She grew evermore obsessed - much, much more than before. She had to see herself, even for another flicker of a second. She just had to.

And so, here she was, stumbling footstep by footstep toward the door, weakened by her desire to have a glance, just one glance, of her oh so proclaimed beauty as she scuffled across the cold cement floor. She was a crazed woman, a mad woman, eyes dancing wild, puffy and red, as she mustered her last remaining morsel of courage. She flung the door open and was greeted by a large, gilded free-standing mirror hiding intentionally in her closet. She stood there, staring at the reflection of herself, unable even to admire her perfection as the little gash beneath her chin became not so little any more, growing and growing in length across her face as if it had a life of its own. Soon enough, the gashes turned to chunks of flesh falling off the bones, but still she could not peel her eyes away as if possessed, and not long after, they did.

This is the story of a girl who was bound by vanity, enslaved by jealousy, and, at the end of it all, embalmed without a head.