[1343] Someone Forgotten

This story has quite a bit of back story that i'd like to introduce elegantly, however, I am finding it difficult. Any advise or critiques are much appreciated!

my crit [1864]

Amalie sits on her balcony, sipping coffee while enjoying a view of the distant Eiffel tower shrouded by a misty morning. Her barista, a slip of a girl, had somehow managed to botch Amalie’s usual black concoction; requiring Amalie to choose between the warm scone she’d given herself the allowance to indulge on, or her much needed stimulant laced with the devil itself: sugar.

Sighing, she gingerly places the scone down. The warm coffee slithers down her throat as she remembers all the steps she took to snatch this life. A life only a certain individual can attain, one filled with status, envy, ambition: but most important, a life of beauty.

Which she’d been cheated of.

It was small reminders really— like how in groups, when someone told a joke and people locked eyes and laughed, no one looked into hers. Or when she waited in line to get coffee, people were annoyed by her mere presence. And when visiting, her parents would sigh and ask why she looked so bedraggled. She lived life in the shadows of those more charismatic and beautiful than her, and one day, she got tired of that.

So it began with sugar: Amalie gave her scone a haughty look and sniffed. She’d decided to limit herself to only 10 grams per day. The weight melted off. She noted that men began holding doors for her when she reached a bmi of exactly 18.

Then she focused on her hair: toying with her locks while recalling that adventure. Research indicated that humans linked long shiny hair with health and youth. The longer the better it seemed. So, Amalie found treatments which would keep her hair straight, shiny, and long for months; granted the price was formaldehyde exposure related to lung damage, but a small price to pay in her opinion. She recalled walking out of the saloon, coughing slightly from the fumes, while a man on a moped caught her eye and almost crashed into a wall.

The world was slightly brighter, rose colored in fact. People looked into her eyes as she spoke, her opinion was valued at work. She slowly found herself liking others' company.

Then one day, while home with her cat, who fit perfectly curled between her legs, she found herself thinking about weaponizing her beauty further: and in the light of a new moon, she researched what nips and tucks, and tweaks and lifts were required—and there were many, many changes required.

To start, Amalie would forsake the nose of her ancestors for that of a dainty ski sloped bridge fit for the swiss alps.

To harmonize her face further, she had botox injected above and at the corners of her eyebrows, to provide a lovely expression of youth and constant shock. Her surgeon also deemed her philtrum (the space between her nose and lips) to be too long, and thus suggested a surgical lip flip. Apparently, the philtrum sags as you age: she wondered when she’d need that lifted again.

Next, she visited an aesthetician. Their waiting room was filled with oversized photos of women with mirror skin and glossy eyes. The receptionists had been exquisite, not a line in sight! As she was ushered into the operation room, she noticed the other women were lovely, and thought to herself there’s no need for them to be here.

With a deft hand, the esthetician pointed out the nooks and crannies of her face that were creating shadows from losing volume, and with that, Amalie had her tear troughs and nasolabial lines filled, and a spot of chin and lip filler: to provide her side profile the balance it lost by her reduced nose—or so she was told. She walked out of that clinic feeling infiltrated with a foreign substance, but as she was slinking down an alleyway to her home, a man with his wife crossed her path. As the wife was reading the shop signs, the man had hungry eyes for her. Her plump lips spread in a smile that didn't reach her frozen eyes.

Her research took her down a rabbit hole of high cranial tops, rounded foreheads, and v-line jaws: and with every visit, she lost a small part of her unwanted self, but gained so much more. She was excelling at work: a rising star they called her! Everyone commented on how refreshed and young she looked—granted, she was young, only twenty four years old.

When she turned twenty five, she had a room full of friends and admirers there with her. While blowing out her candles, she spotted Laurent in the corner talking with Zeline. Zeline, although her face was a bit pillowy, had curves that could rival the Stelvio Pass. Amalie was transfixed above her candles, peering over the subtle lines of Zelines body. She watched Laurent watching Zeline, and in that moment, she knew what she would wish for.

So here she was, the morning of her trip to Brazil: the capital of the procedure called the Brazilian Butt Lift; dangerous for its propensity to cause embolisms, but wonderful in its supple results.

Amalie found first class to her liking—except for the five year old girl chatting to her dad about butterflies. She tried her best to tune her out, but as she was seated next to her, it proved difficult.

To Amalie’s horror, the girl turned her attention to her.

“You look like a princess.” the child said lightly, looking up at her with doe eyes and such a small face, jealousy reared it’s ugly head: Oh why must faces expand like a grotesque balloon! Ameliee thought, wallowing for a moment in her misery.

“I hope I look like you when I grow up.”

That cut through the noise of Amalie’s mind. She turned her body to face the child, her interest piqued.

“Oh yeah? And why is that?” Asked Amalie.

“Well, you look beautiful, that's why. Isn’t she daddy? She looks like a princess.”

The father colored in embarrassment and ushered his daughter over to his side to stop her meddling—his efforts were fruitless.

“I especially like your nose, your eyebrows, and your lip color.” She prattled on.

Amalie found herself annoyed again.

“Yes, yes, thank you. Now I'm going to rest for a bit.” and she feigned sleeping by closing her eyes and resting her neatly coiffed head on the cool airplane window.

An hour later, still pretending to sleep, she caught the murmur of the father and his daughter's conversation.

“Can I be a beautiful daddy?”

“You are sweetheart.”

“No, I'm not. Not like her.”

“Well, she's an adult, you will grow up too one day.”

“Not like her.”

It was quiet then, the engines hum filtering out any other conversation Amalie could hear. After a couple hours she “woke up” and proceeded to do her makeup prior to landing. In the compact mirror, she caught sight of the child's sleeping face, lolling on her father’s shoulder. The child was plain. She would never be a great beauty like Amalie.

As she was finishing up her routine, the child roused, causing Amalie to look again. Her breath caught in her chest. She turned around to check her sight, and was met with the same sleeping child, but she could’ve sworn she had seen her, someone else, in lieu of the chatty brat.

Must be sleep deprivation, she wagered, and shrugged off the feeling of foreboding.

When the flight landed, the girl turned to look at her once more.

“I hope you have a good time in Brazil.”

“Thank you.” replied Amalie curtly.

The child placed a sticky hand in Amalie’s and said “I made you a picture, here.”

And before Amalie could protest, a colorful hand drawn portrait was shoved in her hands.

Amalie stared at the portrait and was rooted to the spot. The picture was her, yes, but it was her. Her original face and hair. Someone she had lost a long time ago.

She felt a wetness prick her eyes.

When Amalie looked up, the child was gone.