More Than A Flower Vase

*TW: suicide Beauty, someone or something that is pleasing to the eye. And for the most part, a beautiful person is perceived to lead a beautiful life. At least that is what most people think. This perception of theirs was just an idealism seen through rose-coloured glasses, and it would never be anything more than that. Of course, Chen Aiyu would know. Her mother was a model, her father a nobody, and somewhere along the way, she came to join the family. She knew she was pretty, after all no one ever let her forget it. The moment she met someone new, they’d comment on how she looked. Initially it was flattering, but then it started to feel artificial. She never questioned it, why would they lie to her? But at the same time, why bring it up if it was so obvious she was pretty? It was because they were trying to butter up to her, wanting her for themselves. A pretty friend to brag about, a pretty girlfriend to show off to others. It was never for her sake, only for their own. Aiyu hated looking in the mirror. All the distress in her life, all the suffering she was going through, it was caused by that very face. But what could she do about it? Absolutely nothing. It made her feel so powerless when it was something that was supposed to make her feel powerful. People looked at her face and claimed it was the paragon of beauty. People sought after her face, contrastingly saying that they were suffering because they weren’t as pretty as her. He yelled at her, screamed at her, for what? For not returning his love? Why? It was not her fault she didn’t love him back. It was not her fault he assumed she had feelings for him. It was not her fault he decided to confess his feelings in front of everyone. Yet she was still blamed for it. The people pitied him and pointed their nasty fingers at her. You humiliated him! They would say, and she would wonder, what did I do? But for a person who has never had a break from being scrutinised and criticised against her whole life, it was nothing she couldn’t handle. The situation only slipped out of control when he brought her family into it. She told him not to, but he still did. They died, they were gone. The guilt, all over her head, her arms, her legs, her body. And no matter how hard she scrubbed it wouldn’t rub off. It’s your fault, it’s your fault. The same words over and over, just that this time, she believed it was true. *In the midst of being rewritten! An asterisk (*) will be inserted where I have rewritten until. Thank you for understanding!*