Envy
I. I was. I am. I am being. I could conjugate the verb, but I couldn't finish the sentence. What was I?
Sure, I could fill in the basics, that part was easy. I had layered brown hair that brushed my shoulders. I flat-ironed it every day to keep up appearences. I had blue eyes. Not the striking kind of blue that makes you turn and stare, but just the average, under-stated tone of common navy. I had a small, slightly upturned nose. I also had one set of pink lips, and two identical, marginally over-sizeed ears. They were pierced, once. The rest of me was just as average. A neck, and a torso, with a pair of arms and legs extending off of it. I had no remarkable or obvious deformities. I, myself, was rather unremarkable. This is all aesthetics, however. The answer to a question as loaded as 'who are you?' is much deeper.
Over time, I had come to realise I defined myself by what I wasn't, by the talents and things that I didn't have. I became a collective list of my failures. I was all that I wasn't, and all that I wanted to be and have. Her full, neatly tousled chestnut hair. That girl's small, delicately curved frame. His confidence. My mother's smile. My father's infectious laugh. My best friend's wardrobe. The happiness reflecting in the eyes of couples around me. The ambition of my older sister. The list went on and on, always adding to itself.
If I knew you, there was an disportionally large chance that some part of me hated or envied you for a trait or another thing that you possesed. It was always with me,it followed me closer than my shadow. Some days it seemed to take on a tangible form. I could feel it, like a lump in the back of my throat. It whispered to me; a horrible creature curled up in the recesses of my mind. I wouldn't want to look in the mirror, but this envy, this jealousy, it would force me to.
And I never, ever, liked what I saw. Not if I looked long enough.
On good days, I would examine myself and find that what I had wasn't all that bad. All in all, my features did combine to make a pretty picture. Nothing extraordinary or goddess-like, but I wasn't a complete mess. I wasn't a horrible person either. I was kind, loving, and I cared about those around me. I never felt the need to hurt small animals. i was smart; both book-smart, and life-smart. My mother wasn't lying when she said I really was special. So, I'd suppose I wasn't a complete waste of skin, bones, and vital fluid. I was beautiful in my own, unique way. Just like the people around me were beautiful, in their own ways. They weren't a part of who I was.
Then, as if he had just been running late, the notorious green monster would come rushing in, and remind me that I was only tolerable, at best. He'd laugh his sarcastic, pitilesslaugh, as if daring me to disagree, taunting me. So I would listen to him, because he had to be right. Then I'd start to hate everyone around me again. It was easier to hate everyone for what they had. Easier to be bitter and angry, to make them feel as bad as I did. Easier to do that than to admit that inside I was overwhelmed.
I guess as I grew it got easier. It started one day, when I looked at my reflection and liked what I saw. But instead of shrinking away and hiding, it just expanding, filling me with a light, buzzed feeling. It stayed with me all day. Then another, and then another after that. I suspect a lot of it had to do with the realization that, if i wanted what everyone else had, maybe they all felt the same. After that, I didn't feel as bad anymore. I worked hard to accept compliments, and to smile more often. After all, I was tearing myself apart, slowly, before then. This wasn't some miraculous, over night change though.
And the monster?
He still visits from time to time.