People tell me that my looks do not matter. Real beauty is on the inside, they say, and that is a wonderful platitude. However, those who speak such words do not endure that which I am forced to.
Years of enforced starvation have left me less than I should be. I am too short and too thin. My skin is unhealthily pale and marred with so very many scars. It seems to stretch so tightly over my bones until it seems that one can see through it to that which lies beneath. I try to hide it with clothing, of course, but it is impossible not to notice just how frail my body is, nor how gaunt my disfigured face.
I have tried to change this. I have tried so hard to put on weight, but it seems that I lose what little I gain almost as soon as I have yet. It has taken me almost a year to gain a few pounds and try as I might, I never seem to gain any more. I know what I look like.
Oh, but how people do so enjoy pointing it out!
"You are too skinny by far, lass!"
"You should eat something before you slip twixt a crack in the pavings and be lost!"
"You look half dead, you do!"
"When was the last time you had a good meal?"
On and on it goes. Comments from complete strangers about how I appear to them. I know it should not bother me. By now, I should be used to this but even so, it hurts me a little.
I was sitting alone in the inn only yesterday when some woman commented a little too loudly on my appearance. Whispers behind my back. She thought she was being so clever in delivering her hateful little jibe in a way she hoped that I could not hear. A wight, she called me; an ugly undead thing. I had done nothing to her. I had never seen her before and yet she felt the need to insult me. Worse, she had not even the courage to speak such words to my face, instead trying to do so confidentially to her companion whilst only three feet away from my seat.
I know it should not hurt. I know I should not let these things affect me. Alas, I cannot help it when such things are said so often.
