I was on a liquid diet because of my condition, and for one or two weeks I remained in bed speechless, ignorant of what was happening in the world. Once my condition became more stable the police started to ask me questions, “Who were those boys?” “What’s your relationship to them?” “What do the boys look like?” I had no answers, I would just sit there crying. I really didn’t know anything, but my silence made the police and my parents question me further. Everyone thought I was hiding something.

I started to become curious about how I looked when the nurses came to replace my dressing, and I saw that my skin under the bandage was as black as charcoal. The expressions that would cross Mom’s face also made me wonder how bad I looked. When I touched my face it felt rough to my fingertips. One night, my mom left her phone on my bed, and I picked it up to see my reflection in the black screen. My body became numb and I started to cry.

The days passed and nothing was getting better—everything was worse. The doctors started removing my dead, blackened skin little by little. The pain was unbearable. My days ran on the same routine: Get up, remove skin, sleep, and eat. Repeat. It was never-ending.

As soon as I was able to, I began walking around the hospital for a little while each day. Curious to see what my face looked like now that they had removed my burned skin, I asked mom to take me to the bathroom where I looked into the mirror. Instantly, I thought, I look like a monster, I couldn’t believe this was my face. Something that I had been so familiar with was now half destroyed. I was full of shame. My life was finished. My old self had died, I didn’t see any future, no marriage, nothing. What kind of future could there be for a monster like me? I tried to act like I hadn’t been crying when I came out of the bathroom; I wanted to be strong for my mom. I felt bad that she had to see my face every day. I didn’t want to go through any more treatment. I just wanted to die.

Eventually the doctors picked off all my skin, and I had to have my bandages replaced each day because they would stick to my skinless arms and face and chest. When they tried to remove the bandages I would get mad. Inside I was shouting that I didn’t want to go through this anymore, I wanted to die.

***

Two months passed and I was transferred to a private hospital to begin a series of surgeries. They took skin from my thighs and pasted it on my burns, which left me unable to walk and confined to bed for seven straight months. My parents left their social lives and my brother skipped school to spend time with me. Yet, whenever someone came to visit, I felt overwhelmed by embarrassment.

During one visit, my mom’s phone rang. It was my dad. After listening to him speak, I saw my mom smile for the first time in a long time. I grabbed the phone from her hand and my dad told me the news: The attack was not my fault; they had mistaken me for my friend. Apparently, my friend’s aunt had hired two boys to throw acid on the girl who was the driving that scooty—but I had swapped seats with her. My dad apologized for ever doubting me. I started to cry. There’d be no more questions, no more people thinking it was my fault.

After seven months of surgery, I was released from hospital. Although I was back at home, I refused to leave my house. My bedroom was my prison and my sanctuary: I wanted to leave it, but it was the only place I felt safe and comfortable. I hated what my life had become.

Gradually—and after several more surgeries—I began walking outside in the park at night. I didn’t want to deal with taunts, or to walk alongside my pretty friends as they got attention. I went from walking at night, to walking in the evening. That changed when a woman walking ahead of me stopped, grabbed my arm, and turned me toward her. I noted the pitiful expression in her face, then she said, “Oh you poor girl, those boys finished your life.” There was no place for a monster like me. I ran to my house, locked myself in my room, and started crying. Once my parents had forced me to open the door they sat me down and tried to explain to me that beauty is not everything. What really mattered was on the inside. I wasn’t interested in hearing or understanding that, so I shut them out. From then on I stayed at home.