Her beautiful strawberry blonde hair brushed his arm as she
set her head on his shoulder. His arms
wrapped around her, keeping her safe. Many had always called her the pretty
girl, even though her insecurities raged on inside her. Her parents abandoned
her, leaving her alone, in multiple foster homes until she turned eighteen and
was ‘released’. They never returned to explain themselves, and she took their
rejection as not being enough.
He leaned down and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
It was a cold February night when her house caught fire. She had fallen asleep, a candle blazing on her
bedside table. First the curtains caught on fire, then, very quickly the entire
room caught on fire. She tried to crawl out of her room, the flames lapping at
her flesh, when she finally escaped she rolled in the grass trying to stamp out
the fire eating away at her skin.
Fifty percent of her body was burned, her once flawless skin
now told a story. With each lap of the flames, her mind engraved the fear, the
fire, and the escape.
The stench of bleach was strong in the hospital as skin
grafts, sponge baths and bandages continued in a repeating cycle.
He came to visit the first night family was allowed. He
reached for her bandaged hand.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered in her ear.
As weeks turned into months, the marks of the flames were still
present.
She became stronger and went home. He was finally able to
rest on the same couch with her. She cried into his shoulders. As she cried she said her scars were “ugly”,
her makeup couldn’t conceal the “imperfections”. He embraced her without saying
a word.
Then he spoke, quietly at first but louder as he went, “You
are beautiful. I don’t care what you want to think about yourself. You can’t change
the past so why relive it?”
She looked up at him, the man who had been her best friend
for four years. The man who was there for her more than her family ever had
been. She finally let down her walls and decided she was going to rebuild her
life how she wanted.
