Monica Albott had never been beautiful.
Sure, she had been cute, pretty even, but never beautiful. She said this over and over, because she believed it and because it was true, but all she ever heard was, "oh Monica, you're just curvy!" and "I wish I were you!". Nothing anyone said ever helped. And so slowly, little by little, the hamburger she at on Friday's for dinner became bread and lettuce, then a tomato and vinegar, then nothing. Her usual coffee in the morning became skin milk and no sugar and her usual snack after school became a salad instead of crisps. And little by little, in her eyes, Monica become pretty. Beautiful even. Her ribs began to show and her cheeks hallows and her eyes sunk, but it was never enough. Soon enough, she was eating nothing and she felt beautiful.
And little by little, Monica Albott vanquished and faded away with no one to color her back in.