The gentle spring breeze swiftly sways my cerulean sundress. The warmth of the soft fabric of
the sundress touches my legs. Somehow, it sends a reassuring sensation to me.The feeling reminds me of when my mother came to my room, which I shared with my two sisters, and tucked me in at night. On the days that working rigorously doing obscure jobs didn’t cause wrinkles in her eyes and force them to shut from every movement, she sang to my siblings and I. I still remember how her voice sounded like sunlight penetrating through the cracks of despair and enlightening it, step by step. Whenever she sang, a glimmer of despair combined with hope shone in her warm hazel eyes. Or maybe that was just the moonlight shining through the stained windows. After she tucked me in, she used to tell me, “Always remember that today is not the day that decides your fate. Let the next day be your day.” She used to kiss me good night ever so softly, like the first snowflake that twirled from the sky and gracefully landed on the ground. That alone was the blanket that protected me from the coldness.

“Such is life,” I mutter under my breath.
I remind myself that today is my day and attempt to focus on the beauty of Central Park. I look up and perceive small, lazy clouds traveling through their vast lavender and light blue colored sea. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and try to let the innocent, fresh air cleanse my soul and fill me up with its tranquility. Exhaling and opening my eyes, I see a familiar blonde head walking up to me. Thin and tall, dressed in a nude-colored dress and matching nude heels and handbag, the person approaches me in a sophisticated manner. It’s you.
***
Keeping my head down, I got off the school bus as quickly as I could. The sky rumbled from my pain and cried the tears that were brewing inside me. I wanted to cry, but I had to be strong. Mother always said that emotional strength shows how tough someone is. My already worn-out shoes splashed against the muddy sidewalk as I ran. Drenched from head to toe in misery and cold, refreshing rain, I entered my “dysfunctional” home and headed for my “filthy” bathroom. I took off my “gross and lame” backpack and sat on the toilet seat. Burying my “ugly face” into my hands, I unleashed the first of my raging sobs.
***
Opening your mouth full of teeth that are too white, revealing that even you can have red lipstick stain on them, you say, “Charlotte, is that you?” Your voice is too perky and the smile plastered on your face is hurting your cheeks. I can tell it’s as fake as the rumors you spread around school about me.
I attempt a small smile and nod my head.
“It’s been too long! You should’ve kept in touch!”
In ninth grade, when our elbows accidentally touched, you began screaming that my nasty skin was ruining your flawless one.
I shrug and look behind you and focus on a butterfly fluttering around. The butterfly is so miniscule compared to everything else. I ponder on whether it sees humans as aggravated and destructive beings, crushing things through the dirt-filled soles of their shoes. The viewpoint wouldn’t be inaccurate. I realize that the butterfly is the only one of its kind here. It must feel lonely, maybe even clueless. Leaving its cocoon with no one to guide it through this chaotic world. That’s a feeling that I’m more than familiar with.
***

Tears, snot, and sadness covered my hands. I heaved and took deep breaths, trying to slow down the flow of tears. It was useless as my “lifeless” eyes and “fat” nose refused to cooperate with my brain. You probably don’t cry like me. You probably don’t even cry at all. You’re perfect. Perfect people have perfect lives. Only imperfections make people cry.
Perfect. I sat up straight and said the word.

“Per-fect.” It didn’t feel right saying the word. When my tongue slid against my teeth, my body felt a tingle. The tingle wasn’t good or bad. It just felt odd. The word simply didn’t want to be pronounced by my “poor mouth.” I wasn’t perfect. I was far from it. I guess I was too imperfect to even say the word.
***

“Charlotte, did you hear me?” you ask. “I was congratulating you on your Nobel Literature Prize. You’re such a successful person now.”

The last time you congratulated was for being a “weirdo from a messed up family.” I always saw being weird as being an unique individual that challenged conventional ideals. But I didn’t tell you that on that day. I still didn’t address it today.

“Oh. Thank you,” I say quietly. You always determined someone’s status from their wealth and success. But the past can’t be forgotten.

There is a silence between us for a brief moment. The silence lingers in the air, enveloping us into its mysterious depths of emptiness. You open your mouth a little, then close it again. That must be a first for you.
I still stare at the delicate butterfly. It flutters near the greenery, where there are less people. I can’t tell if fear or timidity are driving this action. Maybe both. Butterflies are regarded for their beauty and slightness. But this particular one seems fragile, the kind of fragility where one small blow will destroy it all at once. It’s easy to tell that its little wings are trying so hard to go somewhere, anywhere where it can flourish. Fly butterfly. Fly away to your happy place!
***

I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. If only it were like Sleeping Beauty and the mirror could tell me everything. Oh, how bland life can be sometimes! Well, it isn’t the first time life failed me and definitely won’t be the last.
I sighed and tried to find what it was about me that irritated you to the point of you putting my gym clothes in the toilet. And telling everyone that I get food from the dumpster. And whispering, with your voice steady and serious, that I’m better off leaving this life of mine.
I bit my lip, pondering. Blood began to trickle from my lip. Slowly, like the way your words sneakily crept up to my heart. Then as unstoppable as your slithering words coiling around my weak heart, tightening in every breath I took for survival. Gasping for air seemed pointless. I might as well be a fish trying to fly. I remember when you framed me for stealing your goldfish.
I tasted the blood. Salty. The taste pleased my tongue. I thought about your words. They seemed genuine. You were probably right. You were always right.
***

I am bored. So I begin chewing my nails. That’s what I always do when I get bored. You look down at my rugged nails with dried blood. In tenth grade, you called it “disgusting.” Now, you furrow your arched eyebrows and bite your lip, trying not to comment on it.

“Your fingers are so slender and long! It’s beautiful,” you say, pointing at my hand.

“Beautiful?” You always called me ugly. Never beautiful.

“Of course,” you reply with a nervous look.

“Sure. Ok,” I reply, as I try to peel off the skin from my thumb. If I pull the skin with a little more force, the skin will come off. But then, there will be blood. Germs will attack the cut and pain will soar through my thumb. I contemplate what to do about this crisis. After some consideration, I decide to leave the skin alone.

“Ok.” You slowly bob your head, trying to think of something else to say. Poor you. So much thinking. Must be a difficult life.

My eyes dart around, trying to find the butterfly. I find it fluttering above us all. That must be a great view. From a young age, I had wanted to be tall. If I was tall, I could look down others. Literally. I stifle a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” You inquire this with a new glow in your eyes.

“Everything. You being nice just because I’m a successful author now.” I begin to laugh, a hearty laugh that comes from my throat and goes all the way to my stomach. The laugh seeps to my heart and untangles my emotions of fear. With laughter ringing through me, I feel weightless. Today is my day.

“What? Oh no no. You’ve got it all wrong. I have wanted to be your friend since we met.” You say this while mustering up an innocent look on your face. I can tell why you’re not an actress. You touch my arm in what I suppose is to be a friendly gesture. Your hand is as cold as your eyes. What a surprise.

“Don’t touch me,” I say in a hard voice.

You snatch away your arm. “Sorry,” you mutter. Your first apology. You’re reaching a milestone in understanding that you can’t be the queen of the world.

***



I began to search for a razor. Or something else sharp that can slit open my skin and let my wounds pour out. I touched the part of my wrist where I wanted to cut. The skin was smooth and soft. You told me that my skin was “rough and ugly.” You lied. What else had you lied about? I needed to find out.

I studied my reflection on the mirror. My large hazel eyes went well with my curly auburn hair and fair skin. My heart-shaped face housed my features well. I blinked and stared into my eyes. “I don’t look that bad. Sort of pretty. Maybe even beautiful,” I said to my reflection. “I’m pretty smart too. And Ms. Adams says I write well. And I can run faster than anyone else in my grade. And my mother loves me. My sisters want me to do well in life. And I like being me. That’s better than being perfect.”

Maybe my mirror can tell me some things.

***

The butterfly flutters around a tree. Is it looking for where it came from? I know I am.

“You should be sorry,” I reply to you after what seems like forever.

“Well I am,” you state.

“For everything?” I inquire, challenging your dignity.

“What?” Your voice hints at your annoyance at me right now.

My brain begins to form some colorful statements for you to hear. But my conscious decides not to say anything. Some things are better left unspoken. “Ok. Have a nice day.” The puzzled look on your face is enough satisfaction for me. I turn around and walk away. Today is my day. Even you can’t ruin it for me.