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Metamorphous of the Goth Butterfly
The stranger stared at me with oddly familiar eyes. I knew her and yet I did not. Those clear blue eyes, ringed with the charcoal pencil and smudged with purple shadow, which turned the seeming innocence of the blue to cold calculating eyes. Eyes that were dead and no longer saw what was there. Eyes that had looked into the shadows and seen a blackness so dark that no light would ever shine again within it’s depths. The pale face, cheeks that instead of rouged were powdered to look paler than they really were, a sweet looking nose set above the blood red lips, that were outlined with the same charcoal pencil that had lined her eyes.
She lifted her arms to readjust the necklace, with the bat pendant around her throat, as she did the black magician sleeves of her corseted dress flared out. She almost smiled at this but the smile died before it ever reached those cold blue eyes. She smoothed her unnaturally dark hair, and then ran her hands down the black and purple corseted bodice of her dress, her fingers dancing over the laces that pulled in and lifted in just the right place, before continuing to the full skirt that flared underneath. The purple and black crushed velvet of the gown, for surely this was no mere dress, looked smooth and silky. The stranger looked as though she had just stepped from the pages of fantasy novel. A witch perhaps, a seductress, although who would find the emptiness behind that face seductive I know not. Still the edges of my mouth lifted in a sneer, I had never known a man who cared what lay beneath the surface of beauty.
She lifted her dress and pulled on purple thigh high stockings, then over the top of those she pulled on another pair of thigh high stockings, this time black cobweb lace, the contrast of the black on purple brought out the pattern of the cobweb brilliantly. I watched, as she put on ankle length boots, black with a thick, platform heel. These made her at least 4 inches taller, bringing her height to about 5’7” still fairly short by most standards. She would look petite, almost eleven like if it were not for the dark Goth costume. Although it wasn’t a costume, not really. The look was fitting, almost as though this was whom she had always been. The truth was it was who she had always been, at least on the inside.
The fair-haired girl that she had been, the girl so many thought they had known so well, had been just as dead on the inside as this stranger. The smile that used to brush her cherry lips, never reached her eyes either. The girl staring at me now may be a stranger, but she is more familiar than any I have ever known. I will be there when she lays the rose, which she has died black in memory, upon the grave of the one she once was. I will walk with her as she steps outside for the first time. I will hold her hand as she screams out her pain in prose, I will sit with her while others point and jeer; as they are quick to do to all those who are different. She will not feel the shame, the hate or the anger that such actions often evoke. She is dead inside. They killed her with their words, with their cruel lies and hateful eyes.
As I turned from the mirror, from the face of the stranger that was my own reflection I felt cold but I also felt right. I had become who I was meant to be.
Story by Amanda Johnstone
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