Scars make us who we are. They are pinpoints into the pathways of our lives. Some scars are as simple as falling off of a scooter as a child, or burning your hand in the oven. Others, however, tend to be more gruesome in detail, and signify more than just an accident.


    Years ago, I had the perfect face, the perfect skin. It was utterly flawless, nothing could compare to its beauty. I was obsessed with it, I consistently received compliments, and they did nothing but feed my ego. One day, as I was passing the mirror, I noticed a blemish of sorts. It was a nuisance and ruined the complexion I worked so hard to maintain. Unfortunately, there was little I could do, as I had planned a day to spend time with friends. So I went about my activities trying my best to ignore it, but every time I came into view of a mirror, I was torn away from any conversation I was in. I stared deeply, analyzing the imperfection.


    Once I returned home, I immediately applied a variety of skin products in order to rid myself of such a pathetic insignificance. The next day arrived and the blemish was still there. This time I dedicated the entirety of my time to solving such a problem. I plucked and dabbed, yet it was persistent. I began to peel it off with my fingernail.


    As I returned to the mirror, I realized it had only made it worse. I continued to find ways to rid itself from my body, even attempting to scrub it off rather violently with a washcloth. But it did nothing but worsen the problem. Now, there was much more than a blemish. Fear of losing my perfection, and in an act of desperation, I brandished a knife. Perhaps if the spot was removed, it would give my skin what it needed to heal naturally, just like a cut or scrape.


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    I slowly dug away with the dull blade, slicing and tearing at the discoloration. It was an intense pain, but saving my beauty was more important. I ripped off the small bit of skin that had caused so much trouble, satisfied with my work. As I looked in the mirror once more, I was disgusted. The deep red left behind was even worse, it contrasted more with my face than the spot that was there previously. Tears ran down my face, I was unbelievably horrific, I couldn’t remain in such a state.


    I peeled at the edges of the wound, trying to get it to come off. There had to be healthier skin somewhere beneath. Inch by inch, I chipped away, pulling what could only be unimportant, dead skin. In fact, I was likely doing my face a favor, saving myself from having to spend time on exfoliation. Some pieces were more difficult to pull than others, and it took a great deal of time, but eventually I was able to make my skin match, there were no blemishes whatsoever.


    I stared into the mirror and laughed, I was beautiful once more! No imperfections, no marks, only pure, level skin! My face was a bit redder than it was compared to yesterday, and it felt more wet, but I was convinced that it was only part of the process of fresh skin coming to the surface. Red liquid streamed down my face, but I wiped it away without giving it much thought.


    Oddly enough, there was enough skin that it collected in a face-like mask, which was unusual. There had been far more dead skin cells that had needed to be removed than I thought. I brushed away the skin and marveled at my appearance. Now, all I had to do was wait, for it wouldn’t be long before I had my perfect face once more.


    However, my skin did not heal as I expected it to. My unbeatable appearance did not reappear, and I was instead left with a face of horror. My disfigurement is a representation of my obsession. I no longer show my face, I no longer go to public places. When people react with disgust to what I am now, all I can think of is how beautiful I once was, oh, if only they knew.