Introduction

I am a stupid, mishappen rat in a cage full of brilliant mice, each of them beautiful. I can't open my eyes without seeing the intelligence and just the raw charm of their features. It reminds me of how unworthy I am. Tainted, almost. Diseased. Ruining. Rotting, they say one bad apple ruins them all, you know.
Opening my eyes sickens me.
And yet, how can I not love them? Through their condescending stares I see genuine empathy, or about as genuine as ones so perfect can affect on I, their inverse by definition. How could I look at them with anything but the utmost reverence? To hate them would be to hate myself even more, and though it is not the only one, it is a good reason not to do so. They retain every one of my good qualities, and more, to replace my bad ones. How could I ever not love them?
They look the same as me. I wish I could think that, "they look the same as me," but I can't. My eyes are permanently open, the imperfections highlighted in blood-red on a suspiciously colorblind background.
But you, a human, would believe that. "They look the same as me." You, a human, would not see my sad, disproportionate shrug, one shoulder running not much more than a hair's width above the other. But a hair's width to a human, and a hair's width to a mouse are two different things. Likewise, you wouldn't care about the slight gap between my front teeth. Chances are, you wouldn't even notice the missing digit on my left forepaw. However, do not let yourself fret; after all, you're only human.
Regardless, that isn't hardly the point. What I was getting at is this: if I can fool you, why can't I fool myself? I'm not that smart, not nearly as bright as the others.
Through my insane mutterings and sad nights spent curled against an unforgiving layer of sawdust, the best answer I can come up with is the eyes.
Every time they look at me, I get a sense that I'm recieving a look reserved for me and only me. For some it is a look of profound disgust; for some, it is sorrow; for others, it is anger. It makes no difference, what's important is that the look is looked straight at me and never anyone else and I always know.
What if they couldn't look at anything anymore?
What if they had their eyes torn away like an unimportant page in a book?
That is at once a horrible and an exciting thought.
To see something so beautiful, only to understand it can never see itself... It would be the same as killing a young deer, I imagine. Frolicing. So full of life. Then dead. Just like that.
There is also the aesthetic value of the eyes to consider. Those pools of blue understanding, emptied to forever stay dark. Dull. If the loss of something so enormously charming does not move you, perhaps you should consider the depth of your own eyes.
Then, theres's the fact that their looks could be something other than the problem. To do all of that (for nothing) would be horrifying. Mortifying? Maybe. Definitely horrifying.
But theres the chance that I will be able to open my eyes.

Author's Note

Ignore the angst.

Reviews

[JacJak]

I really like the over all flow of reading. I especially like the questions. They make it seem like whoever the narrator is, is going through a lot of personal comparison to the "others." I agree with Laura's comment that it is a bit confuising to follow (I mean flow above as like the sound not necessarily meaning-more about the diction that added to the self-controversy.) I don't know if the one word sentences add much emphasis. To me personally that makes it a lil bit more choppy to read. (thats just me.)
I think it's a pretty moving piece of work.

[n]

This is very good.
Your writting is different, I like that.
Great job.