Swan dark stories

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A conversation between two more arbitrary characters.


In the darkness she doesn't feel ugly. Her features are disguised under the thinnest of veils. This cannot hide her from me.

Moving my gaze softly across her features, I see her crinkled skin and the round shadows cast by her cheek against the light from the door.

Only in the darkness she doesn't feel ugly, even though I tell her that she is not- even in the light. Tonight I say, "Spiders are ugly, and grubs are too. My swan, you are not ugly."

And she answers: "But a spider is not ugly to another spider, and a grub is not ugly to another grub. To hold me under such a diverse lens under the scrutiny of your human eye..."

"That is not what I intend. Come dear, dance with me in the dark."

I lift her to her feet and she sways slightly, protesting, "Sir, my legs are asleep!"

Then we fall back onto the bed and laugh. Her voice is smooth like a clarinet.

I hold her to me, letting her feel me breathe. Feeling her breathe.

"You are graceful," I say.

"You are handsome," she answers.

"You are beautiful."

"But I have round cheeks, and heavy thighs. I have acne. My hands are big."

"Do you think I care about these things?" I lift my fingers to her cheeks, feeling the roundness.

She becomes rigid like a wooden pole, and I can smell her internal conflict. It wafts off of her in waves. Uncertainty, dis-confidence, indignant musings, and electrolytes.

"Why do you care about your hands and acne? What is the matter if your cheeks are like those of a Russian doll? You've caught me already in your grasp, I cannot be dissuaded by these small details."

"I don't know." Her answer. This beast which is her consumes her. Confusion and self-hatred.

"Come little swan," I say now. I rise, and turn on the lamp with one hand. "Though you are beautiful I'll have you know how little your appearance matters to me."

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