I'm so ugly,” she whispers through sobs.
It throws me because that couldn't be further from the truth. “You're beautiful,” I tell her.
“Not on the inside where it counts. My insides are dirty and ugly.”
I brush her tears away and look into her eyes. “Then you don't see the parts that I do.
You’re universally liked because you’re such a black hole in space. You don’t have any real traits. You’re sympa, at least as much as a narcissist can be, but that means nothing. You’re beautiful and everybody projects onto you what they’re looking for, which is easy to do since you don’t stand for anything definite. You’re a black hole in space.
I don't want to die. I deserve, certainly, the most extreme punishment society has, and I think society deserves to be protected from me and from others like me. That's the irony. What I'm talking about is going beyond retribution because there is no way in the world that killing me is going to restore those beautiful children to their parents and correct and soothe the pain.
Not for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like that, to be so beautiful that you don't even realize people are watching you, to be so confident that you don't even have to worry about being nervous or feeling self-conscious. I've spent my whole life trying to pretend I'm that way. What would it be like to have it just come naturally?