thalassa.

Sometime ago I met her; Thalassa. She had jet-black hair that was a mirror-image of the night sky, and her eyes were glass windows peering into darkened waters; it was impossible to tell if you were looking into a calm lake or some vast, primal sea.

Her father was long since dead from drink, and her mother gone as well; out somewhere in the world trying to fill the emptiness in her heart by spending nights entwined with lonely, rich men. Thalassa was alone, and though born into nobility, as an orphan she was relegated to exist among the lower class of society.

Even so, her beauty was known even in distant continents, and men came from far lands just to call upon her. Thalassa danced and flirted and kissed the men, but except for an instance or two, she would always leave them unsatisfied and longing. She always found some way to slip away during the night, and it mattered not if the man was Casanova himself or just some trash from the street; if Thalassa wasn’t into you then she was gone, just like dust in the wind.

One day walking though the marketplace, carrying no sin but that of existing, a man grabbed Thalassa by the arm and dragged her into a nearby alley. “Fuck you!” he cried, “Fuck your beauty, fuck your happiness, and fuck your pride!” The sun glinted for a moment in the reflection of a blade drawn from his side, as he sliced a crescent through her face from ear to cheek. Thalassa cried out in agony, but only her soul cared enough to hear.

Even with the scar that marred her beauty, Thalassa still painted, she danced, she sang, she made things of clay, and when people were hurt either in the spirit or the flesh, Thalassa felt a deep grieving for them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called handsome men revolted her, “No guts,” she said, “no zap. They are riding on their perfect little cheekbones and well-shaped nostrils. All surface and no insides.” Her mind was different, not practical, and because of this she still attracted most men in droves, and similarly drove the women to envy.

But because of her scar, she could never truly find love; all the men she thought maybe might be the one weren’t. They always ended up being shallow fucks, distraught by a bit of imperfect skin; never seeing the beauty lying beneath. If not, they were psychopaths or sociopaths, and Thalassa wasn’t one to settle for less than she was worth.

Over time Thalassa grew tired, and she began to slowly lower her standards hoping that maybe she would one day find someone that would made her happy. As days turned unto weeks, and weeks turned into years, she started to hate herself. Hate is a painful thing to wake up to every cold morning, and to ameliorate her broken soul all she could could do was drag a petite dagger across her pale skin. Each cut placating the pain in her soul, and each gash a penance for the agony within her heart.

As the cuts grew in tandem with her loneliness, she grew lonelier and more distraught. People stared at Thalassa on the streets. She was a beautiful woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever; even with the numerous holes in her soul.

Then came the night she found me. I was sitting alone at a bar; drowning my sorrows in whiskey and wine. She tapped twice upon my shoulder, and I turned not sure what to expect. Here was beauty incarnate, with hood draped over half of her face, but even so I could see the fire in her eyes, the passion in her being.

“Drink?” I asked. “Sure, why not?” I don’t suppose there was anything unusual in the words we exchanged that night, it was simply in the feeling Thalassa gave. She had chosen me and it was as simple as that. Nopressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number of them. She was not only the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had ever seen.

I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked. “Yes, of course, but there’s something else, there’s more that.” She replied, ”People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I’m pretty?” I laughed, ”Pretty isn’t the word; it hardly does you fair.”

Thalassa reached into her bag. She came out with a long hairpin. Before I could stop her she had run this long hairpin through her nose, sideways, just above the nostrils, straight through the now visible scar that had already traced the outline of her features. I gasped in horror.

She looked at me and laughed, “Now do you think me pretty? What do you think now, huh?” I pulled the hairpin out and held part of my handkerchief over the bleeding.

Several people, including the bartender, had seen it happen. The bartender came down: “Look,” he said to her, “you act up again and you’re out. We don’t need your fucking dramatics here.”

“She’ll be fine.” I said.

“It’s my nose, I can do what I want with it.”

“No,” I said, “it hurts me.”

“You mean it hurts you when I stick myself?”

“Yes, it does,” I sighed.

“All right fine, I won’t do it again. Cheer up.”

She kissed me, grinning through the kiss and holding the handkerchief to her. I don’t know why, but that that moment I felt more alive than I had ever felt in my entire life.

Suddenly, doubt permeated her features as she glared at me in disbelief and screamed, “I’ve been to hell and back, with scars to match, so what the fuck makes you different than any other man I’ve ever tried to give my heart to?”

“Nothing.” I said as I stared into the ocean of her eyes. “Except the fact that I’m here now and they aren’t.”

“Aren’t you put off by the scar stretching from my face to my soul?”

And I simply replied, “No.”

Because I wasn’t.