It Will Never Be Mine by Ani Arutiunian

No reflective surface was safe from my scrutinizing gaze, they said.

It was my daily ritual, to spend at least an hour or so gazing into — their words, not mine — " the very soul of my being", trying to find yet another imperfection to get rid of. To try to forgo it, even if it was for just one day only, means to subject myself to emptying discomfort, the one that gnaws on my consciousness with wounding harshness. It was a choice far too cruel, far too costly to try to take. And thus the path of no resistance is left as the best option to choose: let the current wash me away to the darkest of the places, embrace the fated and forget about all the possible what-if's. 

After the daily ritual follows my skincare routine. My grandmother often throws a jab or two at me, ridiculing the complexity of it all. The sneering is uncalled-for, I believe. Each step of the routine is calculated, made to help me achieve the best condition I could be in. Isn't it wonderful, Nancy? One must utilize the progress of the human race to its fullest potential, to try to reach the ultimate perfection. The envy of those from the past century is just an unfortunate obstacle that must be ignored at all cost (otherwise it might just result in another screaming match, solidifying my status as the 'crazy one' in the family).

Next comes the makeup routine, followed by yet another dashing outfit. The finishing touch comes later: it's my pink satin scarf that steals the spotlight of every single designer piece I'm wearing at the moment. My mother gifted me this when I graduated high-school, as you might remember, along with many other cosmetics and fashion items to satiate my hunger for beauty. She said it hides my moles pretty well, masks my imperfections with ease. It's soft, so soft one might be scared to even touch it with bare hands. Though lately, its softness does nothing to lessen the suffocating hold it has on me, cutting off my breath, trying to destroy me.

I'll be frank, Nancy: I wish I was more like you. Your lovely attire will never be tarnished, as too many people adore you to let it happen. Your joints will be forever smooth and flexible, never letting you enjoy the nightmare of perpetual stiffness and pain. Your porcelain skin will never lose its charm: the glow of it, accompanied by the dusty rose of your cheeks, will never fall victim to a greater age. Not a single wrinkle, a freckle, or a mole adorns your pretty face. It feels a bit unfair, Nancy. Not a single effort was put into your looks, yet you are cherished by anyone who is fortunate enough to see you. Yet, I am stuck here, chasing something that seems like it will never be mine.