Grotesque pulchritude

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I was watching that doll-like body clad in a frilly dress. Those beautiful almond eyes staring back at me. It was beyond that glass.

Ever since I was a kid, I amusingly stare at that body. That doll-like body locked up inside that glass cabinet.

I enjoy the white frills at the seams of that black velvet silk. Those curly locks, brown and pure. Hands carefully placed on top of the armrest, adorned with jewels of different sizes.

Back then, I keep on wondering, “Why is such beauty locked up inside that cabinet? Doesn’t it feel sad?”

But then, after several years of admiring it, I finally saw its flaws. Its skin was dry and almost rotten. And by its neck, hidden under the ruffles, a bunch of stitches. Its head was decapitated and sewn back to its neck.

The woeful beauty, long since lost its spark. It was not a body of a doll, nor was it of a lady. It was a body of a man. A man dressed in a luxurious black gown. And its face is not of someone stranger to me. It has the same face as mine. The face of my father. My father who was butchered by my mother. Locked up and dressed in a fancy kind of clothing. Served as a reminder that every man should never, ever dare betray his wife.

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