The dream started a few days later. In it, my face is the face I remember from before the accident—smooth copper skin, full lips. Not a blemish. Not a scrape. Nothing. I run my fingers along the surface of my cheek. There are no grooves or bumps. No pain. When I wake up from this dream, I run to the bathroom. I turn on the lights to the remnants of something that was once on the cover of a magazine, and all I want to do is go back to sleep, go back to the dream where I’m the girl who still has the face of an angel. Worse than this, though, is the realization that I don’t quite understand why I want to go back. I hate my life, and yet, I don’t know anything else, and this is what terrifies me. My whole existence is about the physical me—my eyes and lips and teeth and hair and skin and body—all of the pieces of me people want to see with their own eyes. And who am I if I’m not beautiful?
(from Beautiful Girl)