Losing self in myself,
Inner demons make demands
-Reclusion, by Anberlin

Everyone takes for granted that it’s a blessing. There’s no hiding it, it shows in their eyes when they look at me, or at one of my kind -- it’s either awe or envy in their pointed stares. Never once have they questioned what goes on inside us, inside me. They put it up to superficiality, assuming it’s human nature for a beautiful girl to act this way.

It’s not human nature. It’s not even human.

I’ve learned to hide it well enough that most people, even the ones who know me well, would never guess the inner turmoil I’ve put up with since the day I was born. I learned control from my mother, whose years of practice have created a mastery that I doubt I’ll ever achieve.

No one can imagine how difficult it is to restrain the urge to cringe at the sight of disfigurement, of blemishes, of any type of imperfection that might mar the human body. Seeing past physical flaws is like trying to see through a wall. Try it sometime; tell me how it goes.

They say this burden lessens like any other trait of our kind as the generations pass. If that’s true, I can’t imagine how my grandmother felt. Mother says Grand-mére Delacour was openly critical. She didn’t try to resist the beast inside her, the creature that made all flaws repulsive. It’s the part of me I hate, the part that makes me wonder how anyone could be this judgmental of their own accord. Call me a hypocrite, but it makes me furious to think of how shallow some people can be, judging others for their looks. I can’t help it; it’s technically not even me.

My motives for wishing that everyone could be beautiful aren’t entirely selfish. If everyone was beautiful, no one would have to hear the scathing remarks about their looks. The world would be easier with no reason to fear showing your face.

I’ve seen it in my friends back in France; they feel like it’s their fault they’re not as pretty as I am. They wonder how other people see them when they’re standing next to me. It’s not the world’s opinion they should fear. It’s mine. I am more likely to view them in a negative light than anyone else they will ever meet.

It’s not a blessing, this creature that I am, this part-human beast. I would rather be anything but what I am. Honestly, given the choice, I would rather have been born ugly. At least then I couldn’t criticize. I wouldn’t look at my face in the mirror, only to have to look away into the world. Looking down at my husband, I wouldn’t have to choke back the horror or swallow the dull pang of disgust. Instead of pretending everything was okay, everything would be.

And no one will ever know what goes on inside me, inside every Veela in the world. No one knows of the affliction that comes with our grace, beauty, and charm. No one understands that when we look into a human face, we can see every blemish, every disproportion, however faint or microscopic. I’m the only one that knows of the monster inside that yearns for beauty and screams at the sight of anything else.

No one acknowledges the pain I feel when I see them.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of J K Rowling, who I can say with certainty is not me. Credit to Dark Rose for helping with the summary.

Note: Chapters will be short, although longer than this. The next two/three chapters are written, so updates should be fairly quick at first. Thanks for giving my story a try! Reviews are welcome! :)

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