What do I remember about that day, you ask?

Well, I can describe it as graphically as you can describe the lunch you had last Thursday. I do not remember the taste, or the feel of the air that gripped my face as it melted. I do not even remember the expressions of revenge that gripped his face as he threw the burning liquid at my face. The screams from my friend, when she saw my smile droop, or the lights of the car that drove me to the hospital, I remember nothing. All I remember is the shape, the colour of that one bottle of acid that changed my life.

I had been called beautiful, occasionally. A beauty I would always wish to feel, but in vain. It is subjective, is it not? It didn’t give me much advantage. My life would dance around my work, because that is what made me feel worthy, and I’d go to bed with my hand longing to be held.

How dare then, I sit here, at a pavement in a marketplace which moves as fast as it forgets? How did those who’d look, who loathed my luck and mistook my toil for life being kind to me, transform into glimpses of pity? Why do I sit with a beggars cup today – with nothing to give and a world of wishes, you may ask?

I have no answers. I sit here mum, shocked at how life is the most humorous person I have met. And people, all my life, I have not managed to make them do anything but give me a sidewards glance.
They see beauty – they envy, they move on. They see deformed – they pity, they move on.

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