Unbeautiful (Unbeautiful 1)

Needing to calm down, I turn to my outlet that has saved me over the last eighteen years. I rip open the box labeled notebooks and retrieve the tattered spiral book on top. Grabbing a pen from my purse, I flop down on the unmade bed in the bedroom and allow my hand to release the pressure trapped inside my chest, release the truth I’ll never be able to tell anyone except for this piece of paper.

They say my father was a hero.

That he saved lives.

He wore a heart of gold.

In his world,

a doctor was his calling.

My mother, she was saint,

my father’s pillar,

with a smile so bright, so flawless—

So perfect.

She shined for the world.

Me?

Most saw me as an angel

with a halo primed of gold,

radiating beauty,

skin of flawless porcelain,

rounded eyes reflecting the soul.

Ideally, I was perfect on the outside.

Which meant I had to be perfect on the inside, as well.

My heart had to carry warmth.

It just had to.

Since beauty only meant good.

Worth.

Perfection.

Little did they know

the perfection was only an exterior trait.

Inside, I was flawed.

Scarred.

Ruined.

I carried the darkest of secrets.

I was dangerous.

We all were.

But no one was ever allowed to see that side of me.

They only saw my beauty.

My flawless traits.

My trained behavior.

It’s all anyone ever wanted to see.

In everyone’s eyes,

the three of us created the perfect home,

the perfect balance.

The perfect family.

We fit into the perfect town.

Perfection was scratched into our walls.

Engraved into our skin.

Branded into the minds of everyone who knew us.

Just how my parents wanted.

But then there was my brother.

My brother, he was different.

He was the cloud that cast shadows

and darkness over our home.

Some say that late at night

he danced with the devil.

That under the stars and moon

he stripped himself bare

for the whole world to behold.

They said he was a rebel.

Trouble.

Broken.

He diluted our perfection.

Diluted my mother, the saint,

my father, the hero,

and me, with my warm heart

and halo of gold.

Perfect was something he’d never be.

Little did they know,

even with my brother,

our walls weren’t so perfect,

not even close.

They were created to hide our secrets.

To never let anyone see

what truly lay behind closed doors.

The truth about my family.

But I saw everything.

I saw what my father, the hero, did

when he thought no one was looking.

And my mother, the saint,

how she turned her head

as my brother, who danced with the devil,

suffered for his sins.

Most nights, I would close my eyes,

pretend I was sightless.

That the world was soundless.

That perfection did exist.

But my mother would find me,

make me listen and see imperfection.

The secrets we concealed.

“Open your eyes, Emery.

The world is only what we believe it is.

Shut your eyes, and you’re admitting

that our perfection doesn’t exist.

That you aren’t who we’ve taught you to be.”

Then she would wait as the walls begged to cave in

and started to drown me.

As the cries seeped into my bones,

split me open,

bled me out,

and swallowed me whole.

Weakly, I would cave.

Surrender.

Open my eyes

and pretend I was blind.

For eighteen years, I turned my head.

Played the role my mother wanted me to

every night as I lay in bed.

Until that one daring night,

when I broke the rules for the very first time.

I jumped out my window and into the night.

Jumped into the truth about my family.

Into the truth about the Golden side of town.

Now I’ve finally escaped,

moved out of that perfect home.

Left my family’s secrets behind.

Left my brother all alone.

In the late hours,

as I write in my new room,

in my new life,

I stare up at the moon

and think of my brother,

my mother,

and my father

back at home.

I can almost convince myself that what my mother said was true.

That what’s on the outside is all that matters.

That perfection does exist.

I can almost believe that everything I saw

wasn’t real.

That we really were the perfect family.

That my father was a hero.

And my mother was the most faultless saint.

But the scars inside me convey another story.

They convey the truth of what really happened

in that house and in that town.

What really happened in the late hours

when people thought no one was around.

The scars remind me of who I am.

That I’m not the person people like I am.

That I’m different.

That I have darkness.

Hear voices.

That, like my brother

and mother

and father,

I’m also a sinner.

I’m just more discreet.