There was an old woman who died alone in her grand old house. She never came out of her house and nobody ever entered the house. Everybody knew who the woman was – she used to be a star. The most beautiful woman they’d ever seen. She’d been the face of local adverts and men from far and wide had visited her to give her gifts of prized perfume, makeup and precious silk. The girl was a national treasure: on the outside she was beautiful and kind, but inside the grand old house she was bitter and vain. Bitter because the housewives hated how their husbands doted on her, and bitter that the men only chased her for her looks. But she was very beautiful, and she knew it.
Her house was full of mirrors so she could see herself in every room. She would reapply her many tubs of expensive makeup constantly throughout the day in case she would be seen and photographed.
As she grew older, her skin became thin as paper and sore when she smoothed on the makeup. It would turn red and blotchy, and itch so bad that she would dig her fingers in and scrape thin ribbons of flesh from her face.
She hated the way she looked. She tried to cover it up with more makeup, but it only made it worse. Disgusted with herself, she went round the house and covered the mirrors with black sheets of silk. She never left the house in fear that people would see her beastly face and forget how beautiful she used to look. She never peeked into a mirror, only seeing her reflection in her nightmares.
She died alone in her grand old house. She never came out of her house and nobody ever entered it. Everybody remembered who she was – she used to be a star. The most beautiful woman they’d ever seen.