Am I Pretty?
The tale of kuchisake-onna goes something like this: a beautiful woman wearing a surgical mask asks you: “Am I pretty?” If you say no, she kills you with scissors, sometimes with a large knife, or a katana; if you say yes, she takes off the mask, revealing her grossly disfigured mouth and asks again: “Even now?” If you say no, you die…shocking. If you say yes, however, that’s where things get interesting. Some say she kills you anyway because she knows you’re lying. Others say she slashes your mouth so you look just like her. There are ways to escape, however feasible they may be: throw candy at her, say “pomade” three times, confuse her by telling her she’s average then run, or simply say you don’t have time and in true Japanese spirit, she will apologize and let you go on your way.
Nobody knows who kuchisake-onna is. Some say she was a samurai’s wife, and he cut her for her adulterous ways. In other stories, it’s different. But she could be any of us, really.
How many women have asked the question “Am I pretty” before? How many women have felt that pure unbridled rage that lies deep within the womb? I feel it every time I can’t tie up my ratty hair. I feel it when my stomach fat pokes out of the waistband of my jeans, despite always being told I’m too skinny and need to eat more. I feel it at night when I think about how lost and stupid I am, and how I’m completely out of my depth here—would be, if it weren’t for Miya.
Kuchisake-onna could be either of us, but we don’t take our jealousy out on children. No, we sit with it and let it rot. We put on placid faces, as she rests her head in my lap and I trail my fingers through her hair while cheesy romcoms run non-stop on the television.
Miya’s eyes are closed, but mine are glued to Keira Knightley’s face on the screen. On the flight here, the stewardess told me I looked like her. Me… looking like Keira Knightley? I took a long look at myself in the stuffy airplane bathroom. Really? I mouthed the word with my jaw stuck out and nose slightly scrunched. My voice echoed in my mind in a mock posh accent: “I do look quite pretty.”
Pretty.
I dropped the act. Hollow eyes. Wide, uneven jaw. Fat cheeks. Thin lips. Either the stewardess had a bad memory, or she just really hated Keira Knightley. It’s not that I’m particularly ugly, I’ve just never thought of myself as pretty. Girls like Miya are pretty.
I remember when Miya took me to the onsen for the first time. I kept the small towel wrapped tightly around me, hands covering my acne-speckled shoulders. She stood bare in front of me—her long legs smooth and pale as porcelain, body moulded so masterfully she looked like she belonged in a museum.
“You can’t bring the towel in,” she said.
“I know…” I swallowed, trying not to stare at her breasts.
She trailed a cold, tantalizing hand down my arm, her touch feather-light.
“Come…” She bid before wading into the steaming water.
With flushed cheeks, I nervously dropped the towel and followed her in.
Miya always wore a face mask, even now as we lay on her couch. When I first asked her about it, she told me she had bad lungs. Another time, she told me that she was so unbearably ugly that if I saw her face, it’d kill me. Of course, I didn’t believe her. Everything about Miya was perfect. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met.
I wondered though, what Miya looked like under the mask—if her jaw was as sculpted as her legs, if her cheeks were as supple as her breasts… If her lips were as red and pillow soft as I imagined.
“Miya?”
She hummed softly, grey eyes resting dreamily on the TV screen.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Yes,” she answered, the word floating from her lips effortlessly.
I stared at the TV. Miya lifted her head from my lap, shifting to look up at me.
“You don’t believe me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Maybe if I looked like you…” I said.
Something in her changed. I could feel the weight of her gaze before I even turned to look at her. Her eyes were sharp, and there was something simmering in those endless, silver pools. I felt it instantly as I stared at her. I felt it in the pit of my stomach—gnawing. Her lids were heavy, and my eyes fell to her mask. God, just take it off, I thought. We sat across from each other, her eyes boring into me, making me melt. I felt my skin burn as her knee brushed mine. Neither of us said a word. The movie ended, and she walked me home.
The air was hot and wet. My arms were slick with sweat, and I wanted nothing more than to rip my clothes off. Miya walked beside me, tall and poised, her footsteps weightless on the pavement. The chirping of crickets and buzzing of cicadas echoed in the thick, night air.
I turned the key in the lock; a brief moment of relief as I felt the cool air hit me from inside my air-conditioned apartment. I smiled at Miya. Her attention was elsewhere.
“Miya?”
She turned to me, a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes. My grip tightened on the doorframe.
“Stay…” I breathed, my voice quiet but thick with desperation.
“I shouldn’t…” Miya said gently. “Goodnight.”
But she didn’t leave. She lingered in the doorway, back turned to me as though some unseen force was holding her in place. My fingers tapped along the doorframe, weight shifting from one foot to the other. I traced her outline, trying to make sense of her silence, but she was impenetrable. The cicadas droned on, and I caught her sweet drawl in the melody:
“Am I pretty?” she said.
“What?”
“I asked you if I was pretty.”
“You’re beautiful, Miya…” I insisted.
At that moment, I wanted to reach out to her, I wanted to say a million things I’d probably regret later, but then I saw her hand reaching for her mask, and the words caught in my throat. Long, slender fingers hooked under the loops around her ears. My heart leapt. I clutched the doorframe, waiting breathlessly for her to turn. Her movements were slow—tantalizingly slow—and when our eyes met, I nearly collapsed.
Dear God.
What stood before me could not have been human. Her lips were thin and cracked, and her smile stretched from ear to ear. Flaps of skin hung loose around her cheekbones, and there was blood dripping from the deep gashes carved into her face. Her teeth were pearly white and visible through the holes in her cheeks.
“Even now?” Her voice was dark and rattled as though she were gargling blood.
I felt my stomach lurch, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. There was something so morbidly fascinating about her appearance.
My body moved on its own, and before I could register what was happening, my hand was on Miya’s cheek— gentle, as though I was afraid to hurt her. I felt the warm blood slip between my fingers. She closed her eyes, and after a moment’s hesitation, she melted into my touch.
My lip quivered as I looked at her. Monstrous. Soft.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
A warm sensation took hold of me, starting in my lips, my cheeks, and rushing through my whole body. I tasted iron on my tongue, my mouth flooding before her shrill scream reached my ears:
“LIAR!”
Then came the pain.
I wanted to scream, but my throat was filled with blood. I choked on it, gurgling and heaving as it spewed from my lips. I trampled inside the house. My legs were heavy, and I flung myself against the walls, slapping back and forth like a ragdoll as I tried desperately to run. Miya stalked behind me, a large pair of scissors in her hand. My knees hit the hardwood floor, and I crawled, a thick trail of crimson smeared behind me like a snail about to be crushed underfoot.
Miya threw me into the bedroom. I grit my teeth as my limbs collapsed in a puddle in front of the full-length mirror.
“Please…” I whimpered.
She grabbed a fist full of my hair and yanked my head up, forcing me to look at myself. I let out a pained whine. My eyes were wide and bulging. Tears and snot trailed down my cheeks, slipping into the deep gashes and mixing with the blood that poured from them. My mouth was slit from ear to ear. I felt Miya’s breath hot against my neck:
“Do you think you’re pretty now?”