Fairy tales can kill. One-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :)
Look it up in any dictionary and I can guarantee that it will spin some lie about beauty being wonderful and a great thing to behold. It will tell you that it’s a noun, that it’s derived from the Anglo-French word beute, meaning “physical attractiveness” or “goodness, courtesy”. Look in a storybook and you’ll always see the fairy-tale princess, the one who always gets the handsome prince and the happily-ever-after, described as beautiful, as a stunning beauty with bright eyes and luscious hair and everything else that connotes beauty.
That’s where I think that it all went wrong for my little brother, for the emaciated sixteen-year-old wasting away in a hospital bed with barely enough strength left in his withered paws to hold my hand that hasn’t left his since he wound up here three days ago.
Mikey’s dying, literally killing himself, to find what everyone else calls “beauty” and it’s tearing me apart just like his insides are tearing him apart in search of the vital energy that he hasn’t been giving himself for almost a year now. My baby brother, my best friend and everything that I ever saw as good in this world is anorexic and I didn’t even notice until he collapsed at school; starved to the point of hospitalisation.
And I blame fairy-tales. At least, I blame them for planting the seed that grew into a thorn bush to spike at my baby brother’s non-existent self-confidence. All because of beauty. Think about it for a second, we’re always told as kids that the ones who get the gold or the happiness or the romance are beautiful, that they’re perfect in every way; inside and out. So, to some extent, I guess you could say that this is my fault. I’m the one who read him those, seemingly harmless, stories every night at bedtime when he was little and I’m the one who always drew out the perfectly beautiful princesses for him. The princesses who were always skinny. Because that, apparently, is what beauty means.
Of course I can’t say that I blame this horrific illness, the one that not even I can save my baby brother from, solely on stupid stories about featherweight fairies and lean princes and almost bodiless princesses. That would just be ridiculous. All I’m saying is that I blame them for laying the foundations that his life would later build his own personal guillotine on.
Mikey’s always been sensitive, just like he’s always been naturally slim, so it only really makes sense that school tore him apart. I tried to protect him from the so-called beautiful people at Belleville High to the best of my ability, but I still always found him with bruised skin and haunted eyes. It wasn’t just their fists that broke his heart though, if only, no; it was their words.
Piss off and die.
Go slit your wrists.
Why can’t you be normal?
That last one, the one about being normal, that’s one of my own; something that I screamed at him the day before he collapsed. I’d found him sniffling in his bedroom with a razor blade hovering over his left forearm. In a flash flood of insanity I wrestled it off of him, knocking him to the ground and making him cower away in fear of the one person he thought he could trust. And then I yelled at him, told him what had been bubbling below the surface throughout my years of trying to help him; years that had obviously been in vain because, despite my care and comfort, he still wanted to hurt himself. Not that I can blame him. Not now that I know precisely what life’s done to him.
The beatings, the catcalls, they all just got too much for his naively innocent mind to handle and so he took control of the life that didn’t even feel like his own anymore; he decided to make himself beautiful, to fit in with the idea of beauty presented to him by me and my bedtime stories.
After all, who wants to hurt something beautiful?
A/N: Thank you very much for reading. I don’t really know where this came from, I just got the prompt “beauty” from my table and this kind of happened. Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think. :)