I have been sick my entire life. Ever since I was a child, I have been sick. My legs and face have had an infection so rare the doctor's weren't able to recognize it. Most of the time I felt as though my legs and face were on fire. It wasn't much when I was a child, the doctors thought of it as a mere rash, they told father that it would soon heal. But it never did. In fact it grew worse, the skin on my legs and face became mushy and red and kind of like the skin of an earthworm- red and squiggly and very sensitive. It itched something awful, but scratching only made it worse. On scratching, my skin tore and a mixture of pus and blood came oozing out.
My parents were very rich. My father is a very rich man. He met my mother one day when he'd left for a village for some work. They were trying my mother as a witch. My father immediately put a stop to it and rescued my mother, only to realize that she did have powers, ones that humans did not know of. But my parents must've loved each other back then, they married against all odds. My mother is a beautiful woman. She has long blonde locks, curling naturally, usually put up in a bun that must take her hours. her eyes are golden, much rather like a cat's. My father is also very handsome. He has light purple hair cut short and very, very blue eyes. My father is quite fair but my mother is porcelain pale.
I like to think that I inherited the most ugliest traits of my parents. I have purple hair like my father's but it does not go with my golden, cat like eyes like my mother's. My porcelain pale skin is also not a factor that goes with my purple hair, as compared to my mother's beautiful golden mane. But I have something entirely mine- my hideous skin. When I was a child, my skin was raging red and bubbly, like someone had replaced it with earthworm skin. My upper thighs had the same infection. It wasn't this worse back then. It didn't bleed and neither did pus ooze out from my skin. So as a result, I didn't bandage my face like I do now. And in some cases, it was much, much worse than now. people saw my face and stared. They looked away and frowned. Some gagged. Some were polite enough to look down. As a child it did not bother me, but as I grew up I sensed people's unease. I used to go to school but I soon stopped. It wasn't just because of the people around me. My disease got worse, the opposite of what the doctor's predicted. Soon we shifted into the forest. My mother's idea. She wanted to keep me isolate so that no one found out about me, so that no one would get scared because of me. Soon I stopped going out of the house.
Maybe it was because I was so hideous or maybe it was something else, but my mother didn't love me. She hated me. Even though I was sick, she would pull at my hair, sometimes choke me for a few minutes just to teach me a lesson. My mother had powers, the ones she wouldn't use on anyone but me. But I had powers too. So I would deflect all I could.
My mother hasn't been direct about hating me. She's never told me she hated me, but I know. Because one night, she was so upset, she barged into my room at three in the morning and pulled me by my hair. She used her power to suck all the air around me and I started to choke. I fought her, trying to gain my air back, but I couldn't. She kept on fighting my power with her more powerful power. The lack of oxygen made the little zits on my skin pop and pus oozed out. My skin cracked due to the discomfort and started bleeding. I started tearing from the eyes, not sadness but because of my inability to breathe, my eyes started tearing. It must've been minutes, it was a wonder I wasn't dead. My mother kept on shouting just die already, and I wanted to too. I wanted the pain to end. And not just the one right now, the disease too. Just as I thought that life was finally gripping out of my reach, my father barged in. My mother didn't fight him, just as he came into the room; she stopped and fell on the floor. I gasped for breath, coughing and wheezing. "What's wrong with you, Nica?!"My father shouted and struck her. But my mother just won't sit up. She kept on sobbing and crying "Please god, killed her already."
The momentary loss of oxygen made my disease worse. My face started cracking and my legs were bleeding so much that my skirt became red. From that day on, I started wearing bandages.
My father on the other hand, loved me. He told me many times. He was the one who gave me my medicines and changed my bandages. I never understood why. He was rich enough to afford a servant to change my bandages, but he never did. He always did it himself. I asked him many times, why he wanted to see my ugly face behind the bandages. He told me it was because he loved me, because he loved my face- every inch of it. But it still frustrated me every time. I wouldn't want to keep seeing my own face if I could help it. Why should he then? And even if so, changing my bandages was a dirty work. It always had blood on it, so it would mess the hands of him who changed it. Why get blood and pus on yourself willingly, if you can help it? He never let anyone else feed me medicine or change my bandages. I couldn't put my finger on it, so decided to use it a term to describe love.
I always knew he loved me the best.