I’ve always had this strange.. ability. Based on how good someone is, that’s how beautiful or ugly they are. The more pure, the more beautiful. Only their faces have affect. Injuries do show, colors stay the same, but the structure changes. It has nothing to do with anything sexual or promiscuous. Just how good of a person you are. How kind.
Most people seem average, balanced. I myself looked that way. I wasn’t perfect. Others, I could consider decent-looking, and some are slightly unpleasant to see. Once I saw a very ugly man. Later that week he had been accused of murder.
But then I met a girl. The most beautiful person in existence. She always smiled and helped people. Her hair was like molten copper, that glowing orange-red that fell in strands down to her tailbone. Her eyes reminded me of pure ice, a piercing blue that I could never look away from. She was perfect. So pure with her sharp features.
But then I started noticing bruises on her arms. Cuts, too, as if she’d been hit so hard that the skin had broken apart. She hid them with sleeves and jackets, but I noticed them. We’d become wonderful friends, so I had brought it up with her, concerned for her health. She told me she’d fallen down the stairs.
But the bruises and cuts kept appearing. One day, she brought up the courage to bring me to her house. She said we didn’t have to keep quiet while we watched a comedy show, since her father wasn’t home. She’d said her mother died, but she never told me how.
Halfway through what we were watching, the door opened. I saw her tense up, her beautiful face morphing with fear as she gently felt one of the bruises that were undoubtedly on her torso. I’d caught a glimpse of it when she’d put a jacket on. The shirt had moved. It was an ugly injury.
A man walked into the room and I almost choked on the air that I was breathing. Standing there, was her father; the most ugly, grotesque man I’d ever seen in my entire life.