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A Perfect Wreck

I stare into her eyes. They are dead, like glass eyes. They seem real enough, but there is no soul to them, like a window of a deserted house: they are windows, but there is nothing behind them. I stare at her face: the small, elfish build to it, the high cheekbones and small mouth curved upward in the barest hint of a smile. Her nose has a splattering of invisible freckles--not visible unless you peer close enough for it to be awkward. Her face is framed by elegant wisps of curly brown hair, piled into a bun that rests on the top of her head like a tiara, with just enough loose strands for it to look casual. She's wearing what all the girls are trying to wear--that super-cute teal halter top. I can almost see the ninety dollar price tag lying in her trash basket at home. This is nicely paired with a pair of dangly aquamarine shell earrings, and a pair of short shorts with those chain things on the pockets. Her classic black converse are covered in doodles and sayings. The small silver anklet jingles merrily, sounding for all the world like a windchime made out of shells and glass bottle pieces I had seen when we went to the Atlantic Ocean last summer. From the outside, she looks perfect. The cutest, most perfect girl in school. But I can tell she's not. All that mascara and eyeliner and eyeshadow she's wearing can't disguise that dead look in her eyes. She's not perfect. She never will be. Her size zero waistline will never change the bruises she's concealing on the back of her neck, and her perfect makeup cannot disguise the way she's trying not to limp. She may look perfect, but on the inside she's got red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, sore from crying. On the inside, she's clothed in dirt-streaked rags and no shoes. On the inside, there is no light to show how her model-like teeth sparkle. On the inside, she is a wreck. A perfect wreck.



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