Beauty. Ashes. Vanity

“That is a lovely dress,” Imari said in a singsong manner to no one in particular, her light steps gliding across the wooden flooring of her tiny pink room. She reached for the hanger where the dress had been haphazardly strewn over, caressing the dark purple linen with tenderness and longing. “I wish I could fit in it,” she whispered, eyes darting over to her bulging love handles and lump sized thighs. She looked away with a painful sigh, yearning for the days where the weighing scale didn’t break at the touch of her toe or when the modiste could find her size so easily on the clothing shelves and perhaps the time where she wasn’t only one in her little town who had her dresses sewn by foreign seamstress simply because the measuring tape of the local tailors were never enough to circle her thick-set figure.

She let the dress slip off her fingers as she walked to the window at the left of the room, allowing the wind wash her thoughts and bury the bubbles of self depression that rose within her. “I love myself,” she soothed her doubts, “I love me for who I am,” she said but deep down she knew that no matter how much she said the words or how much she tried to believe them, the taunting words of her peers and sneers from the men would always torment her. 

“She looks like a bloating goat,” she heard her sister whisper one day or atleast pretend to whisper as she snickered with her friends, making mockery of the woman she had become.

“She should just die and leave the world peacefully,” the insults had gotten even more daring over the years and now no one felt the need to whisper. They came in groups to advise her instead, reminding her over and over again that she was never going to be accepted unless by some non-existent miracle she dropped ten bags of stones and turned a diva.

As she wallowed in self-pity, another presence walked into the room. The towering figure of man casting shadows over the stained pink walls. The figure walked like one who knew his way, his steps comfortable and movement causal. His eyes fell on the opened closet, running over the purple dress and the string of others lining the wooden closure.

He sighed “Not again,” and walked towards Imari, eyes dark but gentle and warm.

“Imari,” he whispered but she was far gone in her thoughts and self-pity.

“Imari” he whispered again and this time she turned, eyes wide and mouth open in a scream.

“Fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed, startled to her bones.

A gentle laugh came from the man as he walked over and pulled her arms to his sides.

“You made my heart jump, you buffon!” she scolded but he laughed still because her eyes told him everything her mouth wasn’t saying.

“You missed me, didn’t you,” he asked, a smirk playing on his thin lips.

“Why would I miss you,” she rolled her eyes but hugged him tighter, basking in the scent of masculine musk. He always smelled of nature, perfume and wood, she thought, taking in deep breaths until she had had her fill.

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

She nodded yes but he knew better…he had seen the dresses which meant she had remembered. He hugged her even tighter and stroked her hair with care and tenderness “You did nothing wrong Imari. Nature had blessed you…no, blessed us and if the world can’t see that then to hell with them,”

“Don’t be so crass…a gentleman shouldn’t cuss,” she playfully scolded.

“I’d do anything for you my dear, anything” and he meant that, with every fiber of his being he meant it because even if she didn’t know, Imari was the light to his dark and dangerous world. Born with four fingers, crossed eyes and a layer of skin that was as hard as rock, he was nothing the world approved of, not even his parents. He had survived though until fate cursed him with a deadly stammer and an accident that left him scarred and unable to walk without a limp. Like plague the town avoided him, damning him an outcast and cursing him to Hell. No one wanted anything to do with the freak of nature who looked like every children’s nightmare. Suicide had been his next option to live and save not for Imari, he would have been six feet deep.

She called him beautiful, she called him a work of art and for every time he doubted. She smiled and said “The world would never accept what they can’t understand but I understand and cursed am I, if I do not reverence what a priceless jewel you are,”

Her words gave him life, gave him hope and for every time she said them, he was reassured that despite the evils of the world, he would survive…no, they would survive.

Beauty. Ashes. Vanity. Love was all they needed.

Author's Note

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