She had lit eyes and a beaming face. Her hips swayed and her shoes clicked as she left her mark on the ground beneath her. She was sixteen, when society imprisoned her mind. She starved and thrived, longing for acceptance from society. They’re so many faults, thought my mother’s twin. Hair, too thin. Skin, too spotted. Body, too stout. Character, too courageous. How could that be?
It was a warm spring afternoon when her struggle came to a sudden halt. It was the very day society had accepted her; they had declared her beautiful, just as soon as the doctors declared her dead.
My mother’s twin was deemed worthless till the day she lay lifeless and pale, slit at the wrist, on her four-poster bed. She had soaring aspirations, but society shrugged them off.
My mother’s twin was a victim.