I wasn’t handsome. I wasn’t ugly. I was average looking, and I wasn’t grateful.

            It used to be easy for you to look at me. It was a simple action that I took for granted.

            But today, you look [at me] a bit different[ly].

            Every time we see each other, you can’t look at me the same way. You don’t try to hide it. The minute you see me, your face contorts into a look of disgust. You no longer even speak to me. All you do is cringe and walk away. Sometimes, you even run.

            Maybe, if I didn’t act so rashly, this wouldn’t have happened. But then, you would’ve been the one scarred. And I wouldn’t have known that you only liked me for my appearance. I never knew you were this shallow.

            You look especially a bit cold.

            Plastic surgery could only do so much. I was given a new nose, a new left ear. But the scars couldn’t be completely erased. They are permanent reminders of what happened that day. And that nobody seemed grateful for what I had done. The only things that people seem to notice are the hideous marks on my face, arms, and legs, the bald spots where hair refuses to grow, and the black patch that hides my gruesomely destroyed left eye.

            I used to think that you saw beyond the face. And after I was discharged from the hospital, I desperately hoped that you would see who I was on the inside, as I thought you did. I wished that you wouldn’t pay attention to my drastically changed appearance.

            But fairy tales don’t seem to exist in this world. And your eyes first showed pity. It was soon accompanied by disgust, which eventually overpowered the sympathy. If I hadn’t turned away, you might have regurgitated your last meal right there. Was I really that revolting to look at?

            Your eyes that look at me are filled with pity.

            You, a person who I thought could see beyond handsome faces, could only do the opposite. Because of this, I feared that nobody else could ever see anything but my damaged exterior.

            But for the most part, what’s on the inside isn’t what’s on the outside. On the outside, I look like a monster that is in one of the stories parents tell their children so that they will behave. I even scare adults, who know that monsters and ghosts of such do not exist.

            On the inside, I’m the same person I was before the accident. I don’t growl and try to attack people. My goal is not to hurt others. I’m just as I was before.

            But if you only care about what I look like, then I can assume you wouldn’t know if I was the same person on the inside or not.

            In front of you, I seem smaller.

            Your eyes that now look at me with such repugnance make me feel how much you wish I was not around. Without even having to use words, I can feel pain from your reactions to me. Just your look of repulsion is as strong as a punch to my face.

            And I realize, that despite looking perfectly normal and kind on the outside, on the inside, you are the monster.

            If only you had a body to match. Then, you really could judge a book by its cover.

            But if you asked me whether I really wished this horrible appearance upon you, my answer would be no. If you asked me how I would act if I had the chance to do this all over again, I would say that I would have done the same thing. Because I don’t have enough evil in my heart to wish this onto anyone else.

            So understand that my exterior does not, and will not ever, reflect my interior.

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~DespisedSecret