As I woke

I woke up again in the same room I imagined in my nightmare. Only this time, it was empty of everyone but me and all the wires and monitoring devices that I previously had on had been removed carefully. It wasn’t a dream. It was real. And there was nothing I could do to change it. I waited anxiously for someone to walk through the door but after ten minutes. I figured that they’d been avoiding me thinking I was resting or something far worse. After weighing out the possibilities, I feel the urge to get up. I slowly drag myself to a sitting position and dangle my feet off the side of the bed. I sit there for a minute silently judging myself on how badly I must’ve failed to end up here. I then slowly and quietly wiggle out of bed and make my way to the restroom located right by my hospital room door. I take a minute to steady myself. Holding onto the bathroom sink, I look up to see my reflection. Looking back at me, I see the same as always. Vivid green eyes, hourglass figure, long black hair, plump lips and my father’s perfect nose. Too bad pretty doesn’t pay the bills or get you a legacy. I hated looking at myself in the mirror. I always saw what everyone else saw: pretty but most likely pretty dumb. I worked so hard to be smart, to be the best. So nobody could underestimate me.

I know what you’re thinking. What’s so bad about being pretty? Well the answers’ simple. I thought pretty was a good thing until about eighth grade. I had friends, crushes and a life then but it didn’t mean as much as I thought it would. My “friends” paid a guy to ask me on a date. Not just any guy but the only cute guy in school that every girl drooled over and he had to no problem taking the bribe and in return, was supposed to trick “dumb” pretty me into bed with him and take pictures to send to everyone else. But I thought he liked me as any 13 year old girl would. So I obviously said yes and planned to go his house after school for a movie. I gleaned all day until the final bell rang. He even came to my last class and waited for me. We walked over to his house about two blocks away and up the stairs to his room. He seemed nice and l thought he wanted to be my boyfriend so I allowed him to hold my butt as we watched the movie in his bed (not like I had anything there anyways) but after about thirty minutes, he started kissing me and I got nervous. He told me to relax that he knew what he was doing. I should’ve ran before things got bad. But I tried to relax and kissed him back even though that was my first kiss. Then he started to tear at my clothes trying to get them off as quickly as possible. I panicked and pushed him back. He (who I will never give name as it would give him power) grabbed me again only this time he started hitting me. He pulled me off of his bed by my leg until I hit the floor and kicked me in my stomach twice as I cried and coughed.

“Why are you doing this? I thought you liked me. Please stop.” The thought now that I could have been so wrong then haunts me and has resonated whenever I thought of the idea of love.

He lowered down next to me as he finally decided to give me an explanation.

“Pretty girls are supposed to be whores and stupid ones at that. What makes you think you can say no to me? I want what I started and my $200.”

I looked at him through glossy eyes, hit him where it hurt and ran until the air I heaved in my lungs started to feel like broken glass and I reached my front door. I refused to tell my parents and pretended everything was fine as I went to my room to check my wounds and cry.

Ever since then, I’ve been repulsed by the idea by of being pretty and that the idea of love could be based on beauty. And here I was, letting that repulsion take over once again. Only this time, I’m interrupted before the tears as I hear my mom calling my name anxiously. Maybe there was something wrong with me.