I can't stand it.

Those impossibly disgusting things  

Their uncomfortable edges that cause my skin to curl. Those things with their sharp edges that ruin our perfection  

Ever since an accident where I fell into a hole of used needles and glass in the woods, I can't stand the sight of them. Those nightmarish things that prick into your skin, causing blood to flow as it punctures the web of delict skin and muscle.

We where born with this perfect web to guard our soft and beautiful parts. But those things... All they do is ruin that perfection.

I remember that day so well. The day my sister lured me out to the forest, out to that horrid pit.   

She told me lies of hearing someone crying way down into that pit. I remember the fall. How I looked up and witnessed my sisters smirk as I plummeted.

I remember how it felt. As I landed, as I spattered around, how those imperfect shapes tore my skin. Tore up the perfection that God had gifted me. How they pierced me, and how they screamed their burning pain right into me.

I remember how the blood flowed down, bathing the sharp edges in crimson. I remember how with each move I made, I only sunk deeper into a sharp nightmare.

I begged my sister to help. I asked why, but all I got back was a unbothered sigh as she turned her back to leave me there.

"You're not so beautiful now, are you?" I remember my sister repeating to me.

She left me.

My twin sister that I had spent 20 years with left me down there in that torturing nightmare. In that claustrophobic coffin of sharp knives  

I had known my sister had been jealous of m of my oh so beautiful skin, and my popularity back in high school, but I never thought she would go this far.

Curse those wretched sharp imperfections. Those skin scaring tools. Curse you who put me here.

Eventually, a local hunter had found me and called rescue to help me up. I remember how when I laid in that hospital bed, every part of that room caused me panic. All I could see around me where edges and sharp points just like the ones in the pit.

When I was released, I threw away every single thing that reminded me of that pit. Kithcen utensils, paper and books, my roses, any shape that was sharp needed to be gone, and when it was all gone, it was still not enough.

That's when I noticed  

My nails had grown sharp...

So I HAD to remove them.

Even after all of this, my sister still had not apologized, in fact, she doubled down. She wore clothes with sharp detail and made sure to hug me or get near me any moment she could whilst wearing them.

She sent me videos of knives, broken glass, and needles to harass me. One time, she even sent me a package full of sharp thumbtacks. I remember how the pierced my skin as I picked the box up. I remember how I fell to the ground screaming as I felt what it was.

My pain was her joy. My terror became her sustenance.

Each time, repeating the same phrase.

"You're not so beautiful now, are you?"  

So it repeated. An endless nightmare where my delict skin was punctured, torn, and destroyed by those imperfect shapes. With my own sister being the one to keep me in that nightmare. Endlessly keeping me in that pit.  

Until I heard that whistle, that sweet melody. I was walking home one night when i heard it.

I looked around believing to find my sister, but instead I saw a person. Dressed in a leather coat and gray hat, whistling what I believe to be "in the hall of the Mountain King," the song by that composer... Edward Grieg.

By all accounts, I should have stayed away, but I for some reason followed that strange person.

They walked into the woods, continually whistling that song until they walked out into a clearing. When I caught up to the clearing, the person was gone, but in the middle of the clearing was a large pit. I walked up to it and saw that it was filled with broken glass and used needles.

I don't really know why I did what I did after seeing the pit, but I called my sister.   

I told her I wanted to meet her, that I wanted to have a talk about everything that has happened.

I sent her my location, and when she arrived, I tackled her. Pushing her forward, inch by inch closer to the pit.

She kicked, screamed, and fought back, but she needed to know. She needed to understand how imperfect those objects are. How they cut into you and how they destroy one's beauty, one's perfect flesh.

I remember how she screamed as she fell. How she crawled around. How she sank deeper down into the pool of unending sharp glass and needles. How her flesh was punctured just like mine.

As she sank, she begged, she cursed, she screamed how this wasn't fair. But all I heard was the sound of that wonderfull song. That same whistle from before.