Disclaimer: This story is named after the Staind song of the same name. Credit goes to Staind for it. Characters aren't owned by me, but are owned by ABC and Shonda. All I own is a crazy mind.
A/N: This is just an idea I came up with and hasn't left me ever since. I wasn't planning on posting this; in all honesty, I was worried on how people would take it. It's certainly AU.
This is just a prologue. Chapters will increase in length. Please, opinions are welcomed. Let me know what you think.
She looked at herself.
Her critical eyes flew across her reflection.
She wasn't ugly. She frowned, her eyes narrowing. She wasn't ugly. Her angelic features had brought her success in romantic endeavours before, she knew that. Men were attracted to her, to her intelligence and humour, to her bubbly personality, as well as to her body. She wasn't ugly. No, with her delicate features and large, innocent brown eyes, she was definitely anything but ugly.
He had been lying.
Yes, he had lied to her. Again. When he told her–shouted at her–threw her mother's vase at her head, she knew he had been lying. She was beautiful. She was intelligent. She was loved. Despite what he said.
Looking at her face, pale, translucent under the unforgiving white light, she sighed softly. Mechanically her hand reached for the handle of the bathroom cabinet. Cold metal against her sore hand, she began taking out the necessary items as if she was at work.
The brown liquid screamed against her skin, the soaked wool burning the jagged lines across her fingertips. The cut on her temple protested violently when she cleaned around the wound. The tear in her skin cried as she punched through the needle, carefully suturing the cut.
She was getting better at it; she had had plenty of practice to perfect the fine weave of stitches. She wondered, briefly, if Dr. Yang would be impressed, that she could suture her own face with such precision.
After finishing, she carefully placed away all the components that had helped her clean her lie. She looked down, peering closely at her hands. Not deep enough. Plasters would be sufficient enough she realized and so looked back into the cabinet. Of course, she realized dully, there weren't any plasters.
She sighed, shutting the small door. Once again, she was faced with the mirrored surface. For a moment, she admired her surgical stitches. Then, she admired her almost flawless skin and worn, bright eyes.
She wasn't ugly. She had been a Prom Queen. She wasn't stupid. She was a Harvard graduate. She was loved. She wasn't a mistake.
He had lied.