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Charles could've been a very pretty girl, one of the most beautiful around, if he had not ruined himself.
His relatives used to tell him that he was a pretty little girl, with a cherubic face and that he only got prettier and prettier as he grew up. Even during puberty when his face was dotted with pimples and hormonal acne, even when he had crooked teeth that had to be fixed with braces, even when he got a haircut after pestering his mother. They were sure, the people around him, that he was going to grow up to be the most beautiful woman around, because a pretty little girl would definitely become a pretty little woman. It was unfortunate, in a way, that he couldn't live up to those expectations.
He looked best when his hair was long and when he wore white dresses, when he smiled and had gotten enough sleep that his under-eyes weren't dark, when he was of a decent height for a girl before an unusual growth spurt hit and he became a tall girl (or maybe just an average-height boy). He looked best when he was a girl and not some pretend-boy.
It must've been cruel to his parents that their treasured little girl couldn't grow up to be the beautiful woman they envisioned in their minds, the woman who would've definitely married a man while donning a white bridal dress as they clapped and cheered in the background, the woman who looked nothing short of an angel as she wore elegant dresses and kept her hair neatly tied up, the woman that they were owed because they raised her from birth. Yet instead of what they should've gotten, they got what Charles grew up to be.
First it was written off as a teenage phase that all kids his age would go through, when he had got his hair cut short and wore more boyish clothes, because he'd grow out of it soon. He did grow out of it, but not for long. When the guilt and fear grew in thick, he did trade the hair and clothes for something girly-er, growing his hair long and ditching the boyish clothes for girlish ones. But when that guilt and fear waned enough for discomfort to settle in more neatly, he went back to the short hair and 'boy' clothes. Then he must've been a bit ill in the head, because this phase of his was lasting too long.
His parents let him be for a bit, allowing the boyish look but still forcing him into dresses when it came to parties and fancier occasions. Then his mother pulled him aside one day.
"You aren't dressing this way because you're a lesbian, right?"
It was absurd enough that Charles really wanted to laugh. "I'm not," and least it was truthful.
"Then why?"
"It's comfortable," he said, which technically was not a full lie, "and my hair gets tangled too easily when it's long."
His mother let him off, but he was left wondering why he 'chose' this. Maybe it would've been easier in the long run to have stayed as a girl. It certainly was unfair to his parents that he wouldn't even let them keep their beloved daughter.
When university came, he truly had ruined himself beyond repair.
Cutting came easily now that he was away from the eyes of his parents. Small, shallow cuts were the norm for him beforehand, always little wounds that hid behind the sleeves covering his upper arms and left easily enough that hardly a trace could be seen after. Now though, he was tittering on the edge of danger.
It was impulsive and stupid, snowballing from one instance during the second semester when he was idiotic enough that he simply cut on his forearms, this time deeper than usual. Then it got deeper and deeper, now that he grew more conditioned to the pain of those deeper cuts and the work that would take to get that deep in the first place. Wide scars began to litter his forearms, clearly resembling that of self-inflicted wounds rather than ones that could be written off as coming from other sources. Colder days were when he wore long sleeves that he almost never rolled up for the fear of eyes that trailed over to his scars. Warmer days were when he bought arm warmers and wore them as a piece of fashion, while hiding the second reason for them.
Then the inevitable came where he had to head home for summer break. He eventually figured that it was probably easier to just rip the bandage off and let his parents know, it was sooner or later anyways.
"A perfectly fine girl ruined," his mother would sigh.
"You should've been strong rather than weak," his father would say with disappointment.
They probably were right.
When his hair started to grow a bit long again, his mother carded her hands through the locks and told her, "you should grow your hair out, it looks better on you."
Charles tried to laugh. "I prefer it short." There were plenty of girls with short hair anyways.
"I wish you'd wear more white rather than those dark colors that don't suit you," she also said. This time he didn't bother saying much.
He was a bit of a liar through and through, maybe saying 'a bit' was an understatement. The summer was spent living in some sort of lie, where he kept his hair short but long enough to toe the line between masculine and feminine, where he told his mother that the clothes he bought were indeed from the women's section, where he would try to feel happy when his relatives told him time and time again, "you only become a prettier and prettier girl as you grow up" without knowledge of his ugly scars.
He would've been a very pretty girl if that had been the path he went down, if he stayed a girl rather than tried to become a boy. He would've been one of the prettiest girls around, if he had not ruined his skin, leaving it scarred for the unforeseeable future. He would've been a good daughter too, if he didn't become a boy and thus ruin the joy his parents must've felt when they had borne a daughter. Instead, he was just ruined.