[Part of the Body Series]
Some things don’t have a face.
Some have many faces.
I have a face: it’s mine,
I got it for my birthday
and it’s the only one I have.
I was named after Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in the world, the face that launched a thousand ships. My name also happens to be the name of a woman who was being held as a sex slave whom my dad rescued from the clutches of her evil master; a beautiful, damaged woman who my dad saved, nursed back to health, subsequently fell in love with and potentially fathered a baby with but that’s a story for another day.
Sometimes I recognise myself in the mirror. Mostimes, I do not.
My face: once beautiful, in a classical, English-rose sense, now damaged irreparably. My eyes have seen too much horror, my mouth been downturned too many times, my nose had too many drugs, my teeth stained and never straightened, my skin full of holes and marred by episodes of trouble and violence. I have fallen to the fates of my namesakes. There is no beauty left to behold.