What Lies Within

I have spent a lifetime observing from afar—like a girl pressed against the window of a candy store, staring at sweetness she will never taste.

I am hideous. I am an abomination of creation. I am the experiment that went wrong. I am the mistake that was allowed to live.

And I wish it weren’t so, because I am lonely and I ache for love.

But whenever they see me, they recoil, scream, and run—never pausing to wonder what might live inside this grotesque vessel of my soul. Their fear and rejection cut deeper than solitude ever could. And so, I hide and watch, wishing I had died instead of becoming the monster that I am.

It wasn’t always this way. My father loved me. I know he did. He spent hours at my side—entertaining me, distracting me from the torments he knew would keep me alive. And I know he suffered too. I saw it in his face; in the way he nursed me and in the way he tricked my mind into thinking about anything else but pain.

I remember how he fed my soul. How we read and studied the classics side by side. We analyzed each sentence over and over, searching for meaning. He wanted the books to prove what he believed—that character could outshine the face in the mirror. And I wanted to believe it. But each time I stared at myself, I wondered…because I knew I was changing, becoming unrecognizable as a human while healing.

When I was little, my father explained to me that a strange sickness no one could name was weakening my body, bringing me closer to a death that should have been decades into the future. My father, a rich and powerful man, turned to the frontier of genetics, altering the very code of my being hoping to save me. And he did.

But as I grew older, one thought gnawed at me: was life worth living without connection? For I knew I was meant to belong to the world yet could never truly enter it.

My father would answer me with a quote from Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations: “Everything—a horse, a vine—is created for some duty. What is yours?” To him, I had two: first, to prove the disease could be beaten; second, to live fully, even if I looked different from everyone else. He told me all I needed was to find a place to belong, a place that would value my worth above my looks.

And now I am saved—saved from that cursed sickness—but he is gone. With him went my last connection to the world of the living. And I feel as if I have failed him because I have not fulfilled his visions. But how could I, when I am destined to walk this world alone?

I wander the deep forest by day, and sometimes I dare approach the town that bears my father’s name at night. I refuse to accept my fate, for even the sound of voices, the sight of people going about their lives, makes me feel less alone, less of a failure.

But sometimes I am not careful enough. And I have been seen. I find signs nailed to trees and posted on walls: Beware the figure with the cracked mask, seen near the edge of town. Other warnings speak of a disturbed figure in a costume, terrifying women, children, and men alike.

But now in the cold of winter, I can be more daring. The hoodies, the capes, and the coats conceal me from head to toe. And that was when I saw him for the first time—because his dog slipped free of its leash and found me.

The golden retriever jumped up on me without fear, tail-wagging, pressing its warm muzzle against my stomach as it hopped, trying to lick my face. I froze, terrified. For the first time in years, a living creature had sought me out not with terror, but with trust, with enthusiasm.

The man followed soon after, calling the dog’s name into the dark. When he found us, I pulled my hood tight, hiding my face and moving deeper into the shadows around me. He slowed but did not recoil. “I’m sorry,” he said, his breath fogging in the winter air. “He never runs off like this.”

I should have vanished into the trees. Instead, I whispered, “It’s no bother.” My voice cracked, rough with disuse, but he smiled at the sound of it. After a few more words, the man took his dog and said, “Hey, perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That night, I carried the warmth of his smile like a candle in the wind—flickering, fragile, but bright enough to show me the way.

Night after night, the dog ran up to me with his master, and we got to know each other. At first, the man and I spoke only in fragments, me half-turned away, him cautious but curious. He told me his name, and in time, I gave him mine. He laughed, a sound I had not heard in years, and the laughter stitched itself into me, mending something I thought was gone forever.

Days bled into weeks. The man brought me books worn thin at the edges, for I told him of my love for the classics. I brought him some of my baking, and I delighted in watching him savor it while the retriever rested beside me, chest high and gleaming, as if presenting me—offering me up as something his master needed. I loved the retriever for it, and perhaps he loved me as well.

The man never pressed to see my face, though I saw the hunger in his eyes—to know me, without the disguises I clung to. And his patience encouraged me.

And slowly, dangerously, I fell in love.

Weeks became months. The days grew longer, and the seasons betrayed me. I could no longer bury myself in layers of clothing, and the shadows I had trusted thinned. Yet by then, I no longer felt afraid. He had told me about his interest in me. He said he admired my wit, my wisdom, the knowledge I carried.

And when the fading shadows offered no more cover, I allowed him to see me.

For a heartbeat, I believed. I believed the laughter, the kindness, the warmth in his eyes would hold. I believed my father had not lied when he said that character could outshine the face in the mirror.

I showed myself to him, standing tall, proud, and believing, hoping that the color of my eyes, the very thing he had once praised, would carry my essence to him.

But his eyes widened, the breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. He stumbled back, his features twisting as horror claimed his face. His mouth opened in a silent O, and that silence—the words that failed to come—pierced me deeper than any scream.

Then he turned and ran—dragging his dog away—leaving me alone in the half-light, exposed at last.

I ran in the opposite direction, not caring where my steps carried me. Branches whipped across my face; tears blurred my sight. I stumbled and fell, but rose again, running until I collapsed at the bank of the lake. By then, the sun had risen, and as I heaved for breath, I stared at my reflection.

The water rippled, but my reflection stared back: a mask of fissured skin, lips pulled too thin, eyes too wide. Below, the shape of my body warped the surface—limbs twisted, heavy and stiff, never meant for grace. How could anyone love me, when even the water refused to soften my hideousness?

I stood and started walking toward the center of the lake. The water rose to my calves, my thighs, then my waist and chest. And I kept thinking: what had all this suffering been for? I had failed my father. No one would ever see my worth or love me.

And as the water covered my mouth, and I sank into the depths, I heard frantic barks. On the shore, the golden retriever stood alone, pawing at the water’s edge, no collar at his neck, no leash to bind him. His master had abandoned me, but the dog had not. The dog—my friend—had found me, as he always did, the one creature who knew no horror at my sight. His bark declared the truth no one else would: I had never been, and never would be, the monster.

At the sight of him, I fought the water, fought the pull of the lake—because not all had been lost.