Mark was ugly.

He knew that and so did the people around him. He’d been called other worse things as well, but once it was boiled down, there was nothing else to be said. That was the plain truth in its simplest, cruelest, and most unadulterated form. Ugly was not a matter of opinion in his world; it was a fact. The number on his arm was proof of that.         

In the world Mark lived in, everyone had a Numera. A Numera was a number every baby was born with on their left wrist. It represented just how 'beautiful' the individual was. A person's Numera ranged from one to a hundred, with one meaning the ugliest someone could be, and a hundred representing the utmost beauty. In other words, the higher the number you had, the more beautiful you were. 

How could he survive in this cruel world when all that mattered was the number on his arm?