Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20141003215640

It has always bugged me when people stared. It's not the fact that they stare that worries me, as I am an attractive woman, it is the way that they stare. Some stare with hate filled eyes, others stare with a blank expression. Most of the time, when I catch eyes with whoever is eyeing me, I ponder to myself what it is they're seeing.

I wonder this because it is said the eyes are the root to knowledge. Even as young as an infant, our eyes can pick up on valuable information. A simple glance could reveal someone's aura. Do they like us or do they hate us? Are they good or bad? Of course, our senses only decline from infancy to adulthood. What we see after some age tarnishes our psyches is not at all as accurate and unbiased as it once was. No, our sensory is distorted, allowing monsters to creep within our homes, and to sit at our dinner tables. We no longer see the devious energy surrounding the people within our environment. Everything is warped, biased from years of societal brainwashing.

So, it's not difficult to understand why I ponder what each and every person that stares at me sees. Even now, as my coworker, Lilly, stares at me intently, I wonder what she sees within me. She has always pretended to be quite friendly with me in the past, though I knew it was an act. There was always something about her that never seemed... right. Whenever I caught her staring at me, she would shine a rehearsed smile and wave, as if she had not just been staring at me with hatred.

There have been several women that glared at me in the same way. Each one would look away once caught, prohibiting the truth within their eyes from my view. An outsider looking in would attribute these women's stares with envy, and, to an extent, I would too. Though none have owned up to it, I can see it in their tense eyes that it is envy. Sure, I get a lot of offers to go on dates by countless men at the workplace, but I do not live for such meaningless interactions. My one and only concern is knowing.

What do they see in me?

Do they see the foreign beauty with jet black hair? Do they see a monster wrapped delicately within beautiful wrapping paper? Do they see malice hidden within me, or do they see an ingenue? Each question brings forth a fiery curiosity no amount of sleep can put out. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, I cannot break away from the everlasting urge to know.

So, most nights, I cannot part from my cabinet within my dusty, old basement. With the doors flung open, resembling hands extending out for a hug, I stare intently upon the jars of knowledge. Each set of eyes stare upon me, judging me, interrogating me, jumping to irrational conclusions of who or what I am. The way they stare at me, withholding their judgements from my longing ears, is cruel and unusual punishment.

"What do you see in me!" I yell, kicking at the cabinet harboring the jars.

Each of them wobble back and forth calmly, antagonizing me as they roll their eyes at me, teasing me.

Over and over again, I repeat the question to each and every jar, turning them abruptly as rogue eyes turn away from me, impeding my curiosity. As every night, my question receives no answers. As every night, blueish rings form under my own eyes as the rays of dawn creep within the basement. As every night, I'm left to ponder the question once more.

What do they see in me? 