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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

The journey of a supermodel to universal fame.

Submitted: March 06, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 06, 2018



There’s an aura, around people like us. Conceited, self-absorbed, the most basic white bitch that has ever roamed the Earth. Quinoa chips and kale chips and dieting pills and five-inch stilettos. Makeup and false lashes, fake personality, fake life. How am I supposed to live life comfortably, knowing that I’m hated for living?

Anorexia, that soulless demon, literally eating away at my legs, my stomach, my soul. Even in flashing lights, even as the airtight diamond studded leotard cinches my waist, the stare of the judges eyes ripping apart at every extra little piece of skin, the feeling of the universe’s judging eyes on me, I want to cut all the extra inches off my body, tie the corset so tight I can’t breathe.

 And the other girls backstage, with their thoughtful, twinkling eyes, walking with their natural fluid grace, I feel like a newborn fawn, trampling along with too-long legs and hair extensions. An alien, an outcast, in a world of Photoshop and a set beauty expectation.

 And I was supposed to be that expectation.

 But how can you, when everyone but you think you’re beautiful?

 And as I stand, half-dazed from the blazing lights, the paparazzi crowding the platform, hoping to catch a snapshot of my pampered body, I sate my urge to cry, to fidget with the tassels on my outfit, to run and hide so no one ever had to look upon me again.

 And I keep that dumb smile plastered on my face, cursing myself for the millions of girls who looked upon me, who saw nothing but an airhead, a beautiful dumb blonde, and thought that they should look that way, too. Cursing myself, for the men who thought all women should look this way, with hips protruding from underneath their skin, their spines caved in from their backs, and my vision blurs, but I refuse to cry now.

For they had called my name, the crowd roaring from the stands, my name chanted over and over and over again, as the icy crown was placed, like shackles upon my head.

 The starving girl from Indiana, who hated the way she looked, whose spray-tanned arms covered the remnants of linear scars.

I was the world’s beauty standard.

I was Ms.Universe.


© Copyright 2018 halle schaffer. All rights reserved.

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