You gazed at the cracked mirror in your bathroom. No matter how much make-up or clothing you used you always felt ugly with the marks on your body. You wanted to change that, and the chance was on the horizon. One fateful morning, you received a flyer through the door, that spoke of a doctor who could take away all imperfections for an unknown price. His name was Doctor Cicatrix.
His name was Doctor Cicatrix. You were eager...maybe a little too eager to go to him to make yourself perfect. On the morning of the next day, you awoke and began to make the short journey to his "hospital". You felt yourself walking down the lane, the autumn breeze coating every surface like grease on linoleum tables. Eventually, you came across the building that towered to the heavens yet committed atrocities only for Lucifer's eyes.
Entering the waiting room, the smell of disinfectant and old carpet assaulted your nostrils like wildfire, bringing small tears to your eyes. Siting down on one of the white waiting room chairs, you look down the hallway to your left. There were gurneys and other medical equipment that peppered the hall, some of it stained with crimson blood. Some time later, one of the nurses dressed in blue came and collected you to go under the scalpel with the doctor.
The two of you took a multiple turns and eventually came upon the operating room. It was very white and curtains covered every surface as if it were nothing more than a light morgue. Cicatrix made you lie down on the gurney and put you under with some anesthetic nearby. It must have been hours and hours until you woke back up and now a mirror was being held up to your body. He took your imperfections away. Your beauty spots, your moles, he took them all. You were perfect.
Then of course, came the question of payment. You held out your wallet and only laughs came back from the doctor and his nurses. They wanted more than money. They wanted something in compensation for the beauty. That's why beauty marks.