Behind The Cracks

Despite everything they believe, I'm only a quarter veela.

Despite everything they believe, a part of me is still human, after all.

Despite everything they believe, I do have human instincts and feelings and emotions.

But then they don't seem to understand that.

"Veela," they call me. Like it's my exclusive identity or something. I will admit, being a veela is a big part of who I am, but it isn't what defines me.

Each time I brush my hair, or glance fleetingly at my reflection, be it in a mirror or the surface of a puddle or the curve of a spoon, I remember - oh, yeah - that I'm a veela. But it is none more so than men's lecherous once-overs, boys' awed double-takes, and girls' envious stares that are hard to ignore, that set me apart, that remind me continuously of the fact that I am different, because I am part-veela. And this makes me angry because surfaces aside, I am no more a veela than is Millicent Bulstrode or Eloise Midgen.

Laugh all you want; it's not in the least bit funny, and I am being serious here. Yes, veelas do have brains, you know.

But I am no longer angry. I've grown resigned.

A boy once told me that 'the shimmering silver of your silky gossamer hair makes dull the most gleaming of silverware and the most sparkling of diamonds', and that 'your astounding beauty blinds me, and causes the most beautiful of flowers to wither in shame'. I was eleven then. Needless to say, I was a bit taken aback.

They create a falsified, completely rubbish image of me and don't want to let it go. And when I try to prove them wrong, they stubbornly refuse to believe that that image isn't 100% spot on.

Contrary to the popular belief, my hair isn't spun of silk or encased with miniature diamonds or whatever else they'd like to believe. And they believe a whole lot of things that aren't true.

Because people don't want to believe that I'm normal. They purposely create that impenetrable barrier to keep me away. It's as if they want to believe that I'm different, want to believe that I'm allegedly as cool/arrogant/snobbish as other people have said, so that they can sneer at my aloof ice-princess-ness without feeling in the least bit guilty. They want to believe that I hold myself in high regard and look down my nose at them so that they can gossip about me and cast jealous glares my way all they want and feel that they have the right to do so. Strangely enough, they need to be comforted that they are perfectly within reason to hate my guts.

So I let them believe what they want to.

The unfairness of this world is such that a girl is who she is based on who she is born as. Such that when I'm being normal, when I'm voicing my insecurities or seeming a little less than picture-perfect, they think that I'm acting. Yes, they think that I act this way to gain their wide-eyed-oh-you-poor-misguided-child sympathy which, by the way, is unwanted, unwarranted and completely superfluous. They think that I act this way to gain their trust so that they may let their guard down, only to be deceived by The Evil Veela With The Fangs Behind The Straight White Teeth.

Well, I'm sick of it.

I'm sick of being misjudged, misunderstood, and discriminated against because of what I am projected to be. But then there's nothing I can do. I've already come this far, it seems such a waste to throw it away just for a moment of absolute truth.

Because where I am now, despite my unpopularity with the biased general population, I've got males of all ages throwing themselves at me, prostrating themselves at my feet, ready and at my beck and call to do my bidding.

Be damned if I don't use it to my advantage.

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