That morning, I skimmed through pages of a dead tree.1

The media decided honoring its death by printing "beautiful" images on the peices of its, now laminated, corpse.2

Each page bore an image; beauty products, gossip about the beautiful celebrities, and then pictures of the beautiful models. Every page beautiful. Every page ugly.3

There was one page advertizing nail polish. There was a picture of a half dressed woman, she held her hand out for all to see her sparkling nails, covered in a deep red polish. I looked down at my nails and saw that they were chipped and bare. Running to the bathroom I went and snatched the red polish out of my sister's bathroom, bringing the magazine with me. I sat in the bathtub and attempted to mimic the nails of the beautiful woman's. I would be beautiful also. 4

The polish wasn't the right shade. It was too light. But my sister only had this color red. So I continued coating my fingers sloppily. You couldn't blame me for the mess of nail polish I made, I've never painted them myself. I finished my nails and then compared them to those of the woman's. I looked at the smooth polish on her nails and then I stared at the clumpy mess of mine. Frusturated, I flung open the cabinets and pulled out the nail polish remover. 5

I could faintly hear the harsh voices donwstairs of which I came up here to escape. They only helped to spark the kindling of my anger. I flung the cap across the small bathroom and the air was instantly filled with chemicals. I poured the lemon scented fluid on my hands, an instant burning sensation as it entered the pores of my hands. I scrubbed away the polish, not a trace left, and then turned back to the magazine. I set the magazine on the marble sink.6

Every picture in the magazine was perfect, gorgeous. Why aren't I perfect? I'm not like them. So does that make me ugly?7

I looked up into the mirror, looked at the pink lips that never could bare a smile as beautiful as the actresses in the movies, the eyes never as shiny and contrasting as the models, the person who stared back at me who had never once been beautiful.8

Every picture in the magazine was perfect, gorgeous. Why aren't I perfect? I'm not like them. So does that make me ugly?9

I asked myself again.10

And then I answered myself.11

Yes.12

I was unworthy of photographs, of gossip, of smiling. God created me like this, lower than the models and the movie stars. Never could I be on there level.13

The knot I felt in my stomach was unbearable. All I wanted was to be like the models. I just wanted to be beautiful. The pressure was explanding and now I felt as if I would burst. I had to find some way to relieve the pressure.14

So I opened the drawer and lifted out a pair of scissors. 15

I flipped through the pages of the dead tree and glared down at the blank stares of the beautiful, ugly women. Tears fell and blurred there inky images. 16

Snip. Snip. Off went her head.17

Snip. Snip. See yah.18

Snip. Snip. Good bye, darling.19

Slice. That was the sound of my skin as the blade ran across my wrist. 20

Slice. Again.21

Slice. Yes.22

Slice. 23

Now blood dripped down my arms, towards my fingers. It dripped onto the scattered images of the women. Tears fell with it.24

I stared at the image of myself in the glass. Realizing that, compared to those women, I would be a monster. Blood dripping from my arms, shadows beneath my eyes, and a grim look plastered into my face of course I would look like a monster. But now I can see that in reality they would be the monsters. They caused the spilling of blood, just look at my wrists. 25

The blood still slid down my arms and I looked at my bloody hands. My finger nails, coated with blood, were now a deep red color. The color of the woman's nail polish. 26

My nails, polished in blood, were beautiful and ugly. The beautiful and ugly woman had painted them for me. 27

The woman whos images were bore on the corpse of a tree, had spilled my blood for me.