Act 1. Part 2. "... the ugly victim."

A Chapter by B MacGregor

This is me. It's only one sentence, but it's a great sentence. Easy and understood. A single sentence can define us. Yes?

Act 1. Part 2.

“… the ugly victim.”

This is me. It’s only one sentence, but it’s a great sentence. Easy and understood. A single sentence can define.

This is me, Velvet.

I’m the ugly victim… once burned, twice shy, and broken hearted. I’m the victim in the crime and to the sin. Like it or not.

This is me, flames.

I remember the night before I was burned. I was sensual. I had a great body covered with silky and luxurious skin, plenty of skin. And now, well, I have too little. I'm far from perfection, removed from luxurious.

This is me, scars.

Wounds from all the people I loved, and all the people who left me. They’re no longer gears in my clock, making time move forward. I share nothing with them. My sense of their time is gone. They no longer exist to me.

It’s sad… for them.

This is me, a book.

Frankenstein. Mary Shelley. My favorite book, but it’s so incomplete. It leaves me questioning. Sorry Mary, I still have questions.

Did the doctor realize what he was doing when he sewed the body parts of dead people together? How many souls did the monster have? How many scars? Did the monster have a broken heart? Was it pieced together too?

Was the monster a victim? It had no choice in the experiment.

Did Dr. Frankenstein love the creation? I think so… hoping so.

The monster loved music. It followed music. I guess it had a soul. Anybody that lets music lead them must have a soul.

It’s all inside out.

Yeah, I like Frankenstein. It’s a good read. Thanks Mary for all the questions.

This is me too, wicked, flirty, and fun.

It’s the inside me.

The person I see. It’s the one that emerges whenever I dance. The music starts, the body follows, and I’m no longer the victim. I’m in control. I make the choice. A choice can define a moment. Beauty is nothing more than a long moment. I can re-define beauty by dancing.

Beauty is the compromise between the body and the soul. One best illustrated by dancing. It’s the twist, the mashed potato, the jerk, and the pony. Dancing is fun, giggling fun. It makes it easy to flirt from a safe distance.

However, it’s never enough. That’s the wicked part. The music always ends and the dancing stops. I return to the outside me.

And this is me, disgusting.

It’s the most disgusting thing you can imagine. Like a used Q-tip. That’s all I need to say.

The truth is…

I’m ugly.

I’m frightful and dire. I’m hideous and broken. I’m offensive and unpleasant to all the senses, according to the dictionary. I’m the definition of ugly. It’s official.

I’m revolting.

Who could love me? Who could kiss me with these scars and sores? I’m grotesque, a monster. I’m nothing more than how an empty animal carcass must appear to a Neanderthal-another useless and loveless body to decorate the planet. I’m nothing more than how a scared creature appeared to a nervous town.

Yet, some people find me tempting"more tempting than if I was merely beautiful. Is that odd to you?

Not to me, because it’s just skin.

I’m a compromised beauty.

Deep down, deep inside this ugliness is the memory of a magnificent beauty. It’s still there. I still hold a confident memory of how I once looked, once upon a time. No matter how I appear on the outside. I remember and it gives me courage.

Ugliness makes me beautifully confident. It’s simple. It balances.

I believe there is still a beautiful person in me, deep down, where it all really matters. I’m sure the doctors missed it when they bandaged my festering wounds. It was hidden, right behind the broken heart.

I think some people who stare at me, do so from a higher purpose. They’re saints. They try to look beyond my scars. Yeah, that has to be the definition of real love. Love someone for their soul, not the rift of flesh piled on their bones. Flesh is fragile. Remember that.

Some people follow me as I dance. They’re mesmerized. They see me as a dancer, and my dancing breaks their definition of ugly.

Or maybe they see me as confident? Isn’t it fascinating how some people find my scars interesting and divine? They find my imperfections perfect. Like the beauty of a flame, one that dances.

I wonder if they spend time contemplating my beauty when I dance. I wonder how they define the ugliest dancer in the world. When they study my revulsion, I wonder if they see my tortured body as a martyr"the victim.

I’m the ugly victim.

I wasn’t always scarred. I wasn’t always ugly and broken. Someone did this to me. They redefined me with a book of matches. Behind the smoke, beneath the ashes and the charred skin… I’m just one more ugly victim in the world.

I’m like the monster. No choice in the matter. Right, Franky? It’s not the only thing we share. We don’t like fire either, do we?

Velvet. This is me. I am the ugly victim of a broken heart and a murdered love story.

Who could do this to me?

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© 2010 B MacGregor

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Reviews

Dane Osborne

Fascinating. I can feel this person and see that she is this person who lost out in the probality of life and she knows it. As a result she understands the torment of consciousness better than anybody. Depite how individualistic this character is she is the very epitome for the subjectivity of self. Different philosophies and belief systems including buddhism talk about how shaky the concept of self is and thats an interest to me. Like the buddhists had the concept of the five skahndras to define self and how it changes and is impermanent, everything this character had that she thought defined her best was taken from her and now she she is just "ugly victim" a victim of the machine, the mechanism of the world that can crush and mold blindly and often malfunctioning. This character is the greatest indictment against it all. This work is both poetic and psychologically penetrating. You really have something going here. Bravo 100/100