I thought she was made of china, the first time I met her. Girls that perfect didn't exist, only dolls. Frozen icons of perfection, unattainable.

She made me feel clumsy - she was slight, small, pale, hiding behind perfect ringlets. On paper we sound the same - the same could be said of me (apart from the ringlets; my hair is straight, limp) but she wore it with pride, I treated my height as a disability, my weight as an inconvienience, my skintone a health hazard. I looked sickly, she looked ethereal.

Somehow it wasn't a surprise when she spoke in that soft, low voice. I knew, suddenly, why she was so delicate, why she was so perfect.

She was a fabrication, a creation. Generated perfection.

Those eyes were so sad, wide and fearful - what would happen if they found out?

I swore I'd never tell, clasping her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips on an impulse that changed everything.

I think I ruined her from that moment. I think I broke her. It was as if she shattered into a thousand pieces, her delicacy destroyed.

I was the worst thing to happen to her, even if she gasped otherwise when she was under my touch.

I knew the truth.


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anikawriter about 13 years ago

There is a scene in one of the Oz books where Dorothy comes to a land of people made of china - literally. This story reminds me of that scene. I like how it could be either metaphor or surrealism.

Tommy-Louise about 13 years ago

Beautifully tragic

bespectakate (joined over 13 years ago)
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Ladygirl of a British persuasion; sometimes I actually write stories that aren't depressing (but not very often)

I write for the http://jupiter-palladium.com, which is a webcomic about superheroes. Interesting ones. Cute ones, too. Which is nice. (It's cheerier than most things I write. That's where the happy goes, guys.)

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She was the most delicate girl in town.
Prompt suggested by Gone Awry


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