She was beautiful. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight with a seemingly incandescent radiance that one could only dream of achieving. Her body was perfectly proportionate, with curves and a fair bosom adorning her slender frame. Devoid of flaws, her brown skin was fair and soft. She walked with a sense of purpose, and seemed to almost float across the ground, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of roses. Out of all of her most excellent traits, none compared to her face. High cheekbones and a strong jaw suggested the possibility of royalty in her family. Her eyes were dark and fierce, looking upon those who dared look back with a feeling of expectancy. An expectancy of obedience.
That obedience was rarely met, however. Those who did look upon her were not keen to accept her advances. Even the ugliest of men, when they gazed upon her perfect features, muttered in disgust. They insulted her under their breath, claiming she was nothing more than a pretentious wretch. Men of status and a certain handsomeness looked down upon her. Her beauty, which could attract the attention of the gods of her time, meant nothing to them. Their disdain for her was apparent, as whenever they saw her she was met with jeering insults.
Why, when she possessed this beauty, was she not favored among men? Surely they saw her elegant features, her promising hips, and her grace in movement. Was she not good enough for them? These were the questions she pondered, mulling over them to the point of insanity. She concluded that, despite her physical appearance, something about her was ugly. She had no idea what, but she would try everything in her power to resolve it, and finally take the hearts of men.
Everything she changed about herself was all for naught. It seemed that no matter what she did, no man wanted her. More revealing outfits were appalling; more creative haircuts were infuriating; perfect makeup was downright ghastly. Over time, she began to hate seeing her own face. She spent hours in front of her mirror, staring at her perfect nose, her luscious lips, and her radiant hair. All she saw was an ugly hag. She ventured out into the world less and less, succumbing to her feelings of shame and anxiety until there was nothing left but a beautiful hermit. At long last she couldn't take it anymore. She knew there could only be one way she could cleanse this curse. With a knife, she stabbed herself in the chest, feeling the sweet release of death. She would carry this burden no more.
After death, there always remains a question. We wonder, what could possibly possess a person to take their own life? Especially someone with so many redeeming qualities. Perhaps that is the wrong question to be asking, however. Perhaps instead, we should ask what the circumstances that led to such a tragedy were. Was it her view of herself that caused her to be unhappy, or was it the view society imposed upon her that made her pick up the knife?
