Medusa

2

In my mirror, my eyes looked sad.

I was examining them as I sat at my vanity, putting the final touches of my makeup on my face.

My brown eyes were sad. I could see it. I could see the way they looked dead at first glance, but on the second glance, they were anything but dead. They were exhausted.

I was exhausted, of course. I was permanently exhausted. Ever since that day, that day I realized that no one believed me, I had grown more and more exhausted.

I don't think anyone saw that exhaustion, nor that sadness. I don't think they moved past the first glance, and all they saw was the deadness.

They mistook that deadness for hardness, and perhaps they were right. My eyes had grown hard, and cold. And I knew why, it was quite obvious.

The naivety had vanished. The childlike, pure naivety. That's what had been replaced by the exhaustion. 

I had been naive, I know that now. I had been so damn naive. Naive like a child who believes in justice. Naive like a child who believes the good in people. There is no good in people.

People are horrible.

So, that day... that fateful day when the police officer looked at me with judgment in his eyes and told me there was no case here. That fateful day when the principal told me that I was the one in the wrong.

That fateful day when I realized that my violation had been twisted and turned into a story of my own fabrication... that was the day my naivety died.

A single tear slid down my cheek, carving a path through the makeup, stark against the foundation. I watched it, its slow, hesitant journey, the way it distorted the world reflected in my eye.

The mascara clung to it, transforming it into a black, inky river. It made me think of oil spills, of pollution, of the things that taint and destroy purity. I should wipe it away, reapply the makeup, but I didn't. I let it fall, let it stain the pale skin of my cheeks.

All the way down to the red of my lips.

A striking, bold contrast to the paleness of my skin, the darkness in my eyes, and the wild, black curls that framed around my face.

They say red is the colour of passion, of love, of anger. But looking at it now, all I could see was defiance. A challenge. A warning.

My hand moved on its own accord, drawing the lipstick across my lips one more time. A second layer. A deeper red. As if to prove a point. As if to cement the warning.

That was who I was now.

No longer Andra, the innocent girl who believed in goodness and justice. I was Medusa, the one who had looked into the face of injustice and come out the other side, hardened.

The tear had dried, leaving behind a trail of ruined makeup. I picked up a makeup wipe, gently erasing the evidence of my momentary weakness. Then, I reapplied the foundation, making sure my skin looked flawless, untouched.

My eyes might be sad, my heart might be weary, but to the world, I was Medusa. The girl who was no longer a victim, but a predator. The girl who wanted to hurt the world as much as she hurt.

School had been exactly as I expected it. After the incident with Troy and Felix, the day moved on, each class melding into the next.

Lunch came and went, and I stayed in the background, an observer, a statue. Every so often, someone would look my way, curiosity mingling with apprehension in their eyes. They didn't dare approach, though. They were afraid.