My quiet sorrow echoed through my empty room. The darkness gave comfort, nobody could see it. My ugly face as I let out my emotions, still though. Even if it wasn't dark, not like anyone would look over to see me. Except for my father, I remember one day he brought a famous painter over to our mansion. He wanted a painting of me, I loved it unlike "???". They thought I got all the attention and hogged all the love. They believed I didn't deserve it, constantly telling me how ugly I am—all the way to my very being. But if I was really ugly would my father want a painting of me? He loves me, they're just jealous that he wasn't born with that love.
We argued for hours, it only came to an end because father pulled me away. "I HATE YOU!" "???" yelled out. "You only hate me because you're not me." is what I thought to myself at the time. The painter took hours. For hours on end I sat in that chair, melting from the beams of admiration. Even if I asked for a break I would constantly be told that it was almost finished. Hours with the same posture. Hours looking at the same thing. Hours in the same positions. Hours with the same expression. Hours without food. Hours and hours and hours and hours stacking ON MORE HOURS!!! Maybe it didn't show, but I…I loved it. It was amazing, all the attention that I rightfully deserved just for being born. I loved it.
After the painting was done I stretched for an hour straight, only for it to be interrupted by my father tapping me. He looked at me with disappointment and nodded his head. The painting…It was dull. After all that hard work, I was expressionless. The painting was ordinary, and that wasn't good enough. I apologized to my father and placed it in my room across from my bed. Every day I woke up seeing my face, it was exciting at first but it quickly grew creepy. Why is my hair strand out on the right side of my face? Is my face unsymmetric? Why are my cheeks so chubby? Why? WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! I went outside for a breather only to find "???" hanging out with their friends. They all pointed at me and called me ugly…and fat. I decided to ignore them and keep walking, they don't deserve my attention.
My mind wandered to the painting. Every morning it would look different. It's facial structure. It's an expression. Even its body parts. After coming back from my walk I noticed the painting had a tear running down its cheek with its fist clenched, and it had no mouth. I grabbed the painting and put it in the attic. Seeing that type of beauty everyday is a blessing not even I deserve. After walking down the attic, I noticed a naked man—smiling. His eyes were wide and bent into a dramatic smile, showing all of his teeth. His breath was heavy as if he accomplished something. I froze for a moment before running full speed the other direction. He chased after me but…but his head didn't move. He ran full speed but everything was moving but his head. Everything started spinning as I tripped on my dress and fell onto my nose, causing it to bleed. He ran up to me and stopped. "Open it." He said. "What?" I said. He grabbed onto me and looked me in the eyes, his breathing matching that of a man who finished a marathon. "Open the attic, look at it." "What?" "Look at it!" "Look at what?" "LOOK AT IT!" "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" "LOOK AT M-!"
Suddenly Charles crashed into the shack, bloodied. He rolled in pain before standing up slowly. "It saw me." I rose up and suddenly John crashed into me and a giant tentacle swung at where my head once was. I looked at John only to see pure terror on his face. "We're…we're gonna die. It's over." He said as every bit of the world's horror settled in.