Raz
Bluelighter
TRIGGER WARNING: this piece deals with self-injuring, just letting peeps know before y'all get into it. 
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Aphrodite Kyriopoulos examined her naked form in the full-length mirror taken from its hiding place beneath her bed.
This was her nightly ritual.
Each night she would close her bedroom door, drag the mirror out and prop it silently against the door. She would lay the same crusted towel on the floor, and stand upon it in bare feet. She would remove her outermost layer of clothing, her underwear and the ridiculous training bra that hid her underdeveloped breasts. She would stand numbly before herself, her cloud of black wiry hair loosed from its ties and framing her sullen face. She would examine her sunken cheekbones, her cavernous empty eye sockets and the thick dark brows that sat above them. Her lips that were too thin, her shoulders that were too prominent, her skin that was too pale and spotted.
Each night she bit her fingernails to the quick in her futile search for some sign of womanhood in this graceless sexless form. Her body was changing, but they were not changes she welcomed. Hair and odors she didn't want. Sickness in her gut that only grew worse. Each night she descended deeper into this pitch, and there seemed less light before the dawn.
Aphrodite took the scissors from where she kept them beneath her alarm clock. She traced old scars lightly with the tip of the blade. She didn't remember when this had all started. She didn't remember a time before the scars, it seemed to her that her life had always been this thing, and visions of childhood and sunshine seemed to belong to some other girl now.
The metal scratched at her skin, and Aphrodite thought again of the cruelty and the irony in her name. She was named after the goddess of love, yet she was a topography of shame and hatred and impotent rage. And disgust. Such disgust. The first trickle of blood ran down her thigh, and Aphrodite felt gripped by a familiar despondent calm. She didn't want to be this way, but this was all she knew. This was all she was.
She watched with the same detachment as the ugly girl in the mirror ran the blade down her leg in one methodic motion. Then another. And another, each one cutting deeper and faster, but always with the same precise stroke. She didn't even notice the wetness of the tears on her cheeks anymore, and she didn't cry out. This was all this creature deserved.
You are beautiful.
Aphrodite gasped out loud, flinching at the voice. She looked around her room like a wild animal, reeling. Who had said that? Was that woman's voice real, or had she imagined it? And what was this noise now, this keening ululation that seemed to come from somewhere here -
Oh God. Aphrodite stopped, meeting her own panicked gaze in the mirror. It's me. That noise is coming from me. She covered her mouth with shaking hands and released some cry that seemed to her like the cry of a wounded beast, and all the time she couldn't tear her gaze from her own eyes. These weren't the eyes of a misfit or a monster, they were the eyes of a scared little girl. A scared little girl who was suddenly so overwhelmed with feeling that she doubled over and fell to the floor.
Aphrodite cried herself to sleep there on that stained towel. She woke several hours later lined with dried blood and started at her own reflection, forgetting where she had fallen. Realisation came to her quickly, but so did something else.
She examined her features again, but there seemed a different shine on the mirror this time. She felt something different. It had been a long time since she had felt something different.
You are beautiful.
She didn't know who had spoken those words. She didn't know if she had hallucinated them. But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe tonight it didn't matter. Aphrodite stood. She replaced the towel and the scissors in their respective hiding spaces, and she considered replacing the mirror but then stopped herself. Aphrodite climbed into her pyjamas, turned her bedside lamp on and switched the bedroom light off. Under a blanket with her favourite stuffed toy in her embrace, she looked upon herself again. Under this light her features seemed less harsh, her skin more delicate.
Maybe it didn't matter if nobody had said those words, maybe it just mattered that she had found a part of herself that wanted to believe them. She closed her eyes and let that thought work through her.
Tonight, there was a little more light before the dawn.
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Aphrodite Kyriopoulos examined her naked form in the full-length mirror taken from its hiding place beneath her bed.
This was her nightly ritual.
Each night she would close her bedroom door, drag the mirror out and prop it silently against the door. She would lay the same crusted towel on the floor, and stand upon it in bare feet. She would remove her outermost layer of clothing, her underwear and the ridiculous training bra that hid her underdeveloped breasts. She would stand numbly before herself, her cloud of black wiry hair loosed from its ties and framing her sullen face. She would examine her sunken cheekbones, her cavernous empty eye sockets and the thick dark brows that sat above them. Her lips that were too thin, her shoulders that were too prominent, her skin that was too pale and spotted.
Each night she bit her fingernails to the quick in her futile search for some sign of womanhood in this graceless sexless form. Her body was changing, but they were not changes she welcomed. Hair and odors she didn't want. Sickness in her gut that only grew worse. Each night she descended deeper into this pitch, and there seemed less light before the dawn.
Aphrodite took the scissors from where she kept them beneath her alarm clock. She traced old scars lightly with the tip of the blade. She didn't remember when this had all started. She didn't remember a time before the scars, it seemed to her that her life had always been this thing, and visions of childhood and sunshine seemed to belong to some other girl now.
The metal scratched at her skin, and Aphrodite thought again of the cruelty and the irony in her name. She was named after the goddess of love, yet she was a topography of shame and hatred and impotent rage. And disgust. Such disgust. The first trickle of blood ran down her thigh, and Aphrodite felt gripped by a familiar despondent calm. She didn't want to be this way, but this was all she knew. This was all she was.
She watched with the same detachment as the ugly girl in the mirror ran the blade down her leg in one methodic motion. Then another. And another, each one cutting deeper and faster, but always with the same precise stroke. She didn't even notice the wetness of the tears on her cheeks anymore, and she didn't cry out. This was all this creature deserved.
You are beautiful.
Aphrodite gasped out loud, flinching at the voice. She looked around her room like a wild animal, reeling. Who had said that? Was that woman's voice real, or had she imagined it? And what was this noise now, this keening ululation that seemed to come from somewhere here -
Oh God. Aphrodite stopped, meeting her own panicked gaze in the mirror. It's me. That noise is coming from me. She covered her mouth with shaking hands and released some cry that seemed to her like the cry of a wounded beast, and all the time she couldn't tear her gaze from her own eyes. These weren't the eyes of a misfit or a monster, they were the eyes of a scared little girl. A scared little girl who was suddenly so overwhelmed with feeling that she doubled over and fell to the floor.
Aphrodite cried herself to sleep there on that stained towel. She woke several hours later lined with dried blood and started at her own reflection, forgetting where she had fallen. Realisation came to her quickly, but so did something else.
She examined her features again, but there seemed a different shine on the mirror this time. She felt something different. It had been a long time since she had felt something different.
You are beautiful.
She didn't know who had spoken those words. She didn't know if she had hallucinated them. But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe tonight it didn't matter. Aphrodite stood. She replaced the towel and the scissors in their respective hiding spaces, and she considered replacing the mirror but then stopped herself. Aphrodite climbed into her pyjamas, turned her bedside lamp on and switched the bedroom light off. Under a blanket with her favourite stuffed toy in her embrace, she looked upon herself again. Under this light her features seemed less harsh, her skin more delicate.
Maybe it didn't matter if nobody had said those words, maybe it just mattered that she had found a part of herself that wanted to believe them. She closed her eyes and let that thought work through her.
Tonight, there was a little more light before the dawn.
