Black and Blue
You leave me battered. You leave me bruised. You never seem to think that I feel hurt, and I'm not surprised that you're surprised when you finally see pain on my face.
I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.
Did you think I was merely speaking empty words? No. I know what that means because that's what I go through every day. That is who I am. You were taken by surprise when you finally took in my pain because I've been so successful in keeping to myself, so afraid to bother you or anyone with my emotions. Something I know is insignificant to you. Not emotions, but my emotions.
You know what? I'm invisible. I know I'm invisible. In fact, I don't just look sad when no one can see me. I look happy when no one can see me. I look afraid when no one can see me. I look everything I feel when no one can see me.
And no, don't tell me that your unfailing eyes never not see me. Your eyes may see my physical being, but you never see my soul, not my heart, not my spirit. Your deductions only go so far to describe what you can see in my body, or maybe in my mind, but you have never seen past that.
You've never seen me because you've never cared.
You think I'm an idiot? You think I know nothing? Wrong. I know I count, but only for things that make you count. You count as a detective, so I count as your lab assistant. You count as a friend to your friends, so I count as your secret soundboard for your social frustrations. You count as a hero, so I count as your safety net, just waiting at the bottom to catch you when you fall.
That's it. That's all the reasons why I count.
And that's exactly why I don't count.
Now you're back, and you're happy. As usual, I get left behind, in the shadows of the morgue where I belong.
Battered and bruised, black and blue, but still alive enough to continue loving you.
Note: The author finds these kinds of first-person angst stories the most natural to start, for some reason.