There was very little she could do about having been born this way; the mirror was not her friend, no, but her real enemy was time. She was a broken shell of a girl and she knew it. But stopping was never an option, neither was giving up. She ignored the nervous looks and pitying stares that never met her eyes as she went about her day. The only one who treated her like a person was Charles, the local hermit. He was an outcast too. He had been a soldier before the war and death finally broke him. He had returned home to find his wife with another man, so he had left, traveling across the country until he came to this small town on the coast and finally decided to stop running. He joked that he simply did not want to learn to swim.
The truth was, they were both simply waiting to die.