Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder




She stands against the wall opposite me, pinned in the corner, her body shuddering, her eyes wide in panic and disbelief.. If only there were something I could do, if only it could be helped. Her shoulders shake with tearless sobs, her voice desperate: “Let me go!” She thrashes and struggles.  “Please!” As if that could sway him.

A cry of pain, and then another.

She shudders and chokes, letting out a groan. Try as I might to aid her, he holds me back. The attempt is useless.

Now I can only watch as he holds her chin up to the light, stroking down the side of her cheek.

“Why are you doing this?!” He meets her words with pure silence, running the knife down her cheek and letting the edge of the blade press, quivering, against the underside of her cheekbone. He pauses, his expression intent. “I can make you beautiful. That’s what you’ve always wanted isn’t it? I can do that for you.”

 I writhe in contempt for him, repulsed. Everything about him makes me retch; every part of me despises him. Yet nothing I can do to hold him back.

Her eyes stare into mine in desperation, beyond words now.


Turning the silver blade with impeccable precision, I let the edge of it graze the skin, running it down the face to draw a raised red line. Your whimpering and pleading for the girl’s safety only makes me smile more.  Grasping the shoulders, I slam them against the welsh dresser, savouring the thud of the body against the hard wood. The impact sends a jar of salt crashing to the kitchen worktop in a flurry of shattering glass. Taking a pinch between forefinger and thumb, I rub the course white grains into the wounds. I smile at each flinch.


You’re empathizing with her – a sign of sheer weakness. You don’t need this nobody. You need me, to watch your back. Without me you are nothing.



He’s nothing but an animal. Lower than animal, lower than a bacterium. If I could I would spit in his face, but it is impossible. The most I can do is send vibes of disgust.

Something inside me seems to tremble as I observe his hands wielding the knife like a great artist holds a paintbrush. Yet this art is no thing of beauty. If he could paint, his palette would only contain different shades of red – the only relief from the greyness within. Yet he does not stop at pretty pictures. He has more brutal forms of expression - sculpture.

“I can make you beautiful. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”


The knife moves slowly, cutting into the flesh, graceful as a silver trout through a river.

The trickles of crimson begin to flow, from streams to gushing torrents, cascading down those slender, bronzed curves like holy water. I take a deep breath, inhaling the distinct metallic smell of the hot red liquid. Such a divine liquor, to be observed not tasted. No wine-maker could contend. No perfumer could better its bittersweet aroma. I do this for your own good. No need to waste your emotions this one. Now this unremarkable girl can feel divine. No fakery needed.  For the first time in her miserable life, she is a work of art.



The End

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