The Burden

fictional essay

fiction by Adwen Aarvan (pseudonym)

People say I'm beautiful. I don't think I'm any better looking than the next person, but I've been told I was, over and over, since I was very small, so I have to think people mean something by it.

Not that I always like what they mean.

It's meant to be a compliment, or flattery. It's meant to be some sort of praise. What it really is is a burden — a heavy one. Carrying it is a lot of work. I sometimes picture some twenty-something woman, slaving away in a hot laundry or an airless kitchen. Working herself to death.

I'm only a hair more than half that age, but I know what work is, all the same. Not that I've ever done any, not really. But carrying an invisible burden is a lot of work. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about.

'What do you mean, invisible?' I can hear you say. 'If it's anything at all, beauty is quite visible. That's what makes it valuable.'

But I'm not talking about the beauty itself. I'm talking about the idea of it. That's where the weight is. The notion that, somehow, my supposed beauty makes me more important than plain-looking people. More admirable.

But being admired has its downside.

Think for a minute about a young gymnast, say — about my age. She's flexible. She's strong. She has excellent balance. She has a great sense of timing. She's graceful.

She's what they call 'a natural.'

For some reason, this somehow obligates her. It means she has to be a gymnast. She has no choice. Her parents pay a lot of money to get her trained. To buy her a good coach. To enter her in a million contests. To get her 'exposure.'

But what if what she wants is to be a surgeon? Or a sculptor? What if she hates the workouts, the sweat, the politics?

Fine, they say. You can be a world-famous surgeon or sculptor later. Be our guest. But first you have to be a gymnast. Your abilities are God's gift to the universe. ('And to us, your parents' — but they leave that part out.) You can't throw it away. You can't waste your talent.

There are times when I think beauty is a curse, not a gift. It's worse than having all the ingredients to be a great gymnast, because what am I supposed to do with it? A gymnast at least has something she can do with all those skills.

'Be a model,' they say. Or: 'Be an actress.'

What they don't seem to realize is that it takes more than looks to be a model. And it takes a whole lot more than looks to be a good actress. What if I don't have those other things?

They shrug as though it doesn't matter. As though the looks is all that counts.

That's the burden: living up to what other people think the beauty means.

That's why I got the kitten: to save myself from needing to figure out what I was supposed to do with the beauty. To do something, for a change, instead of just being something.

His mother died when he was just a few days old. The kitten, I mean. She got run over by a car, and he was a long way from being able to have her wean him yet.

So I adopted him.

I feed him, with a doll's bottle. I took a hot needle and drilled holes in the rubber, or plastic, or whatever it is, so that when I put milk inside, it would come out for him to drink. Except he won't drink straight milk. Not cow, not goat. Not even human.

I'm too young to make any myself, of course, but I have a married older sister who is nursing a new baby, and I talked her into giving me some of her milk to feed him.

He wouldn't touch it.

What he needs is milk from his mother, or at least from some other cat. And he's the only cat I know.

But if I use the right combination, and prepare it just right, and warm it a bit in the microwave, he'll drink a few swallows. I don't know if it's going to be enough, but I hope it will. Also, he's getting to a size now where pretty soon I'll be able to try putting him on soft cat food. I think that will help, if we make it that far.

The way I prepare the stuff he drinks (I can't really call it milk) is to take some half and half, add a bit of olive oil, and some powdered skim milk, and mix it all up together, very thoroughly. If it's not too thick and not too thin, he'll drink some. I always love it when he finally gives in and does.

You may wonder how I came upon this 'formula.' I did some research. I found out a cat's milk doesn't have much natural sugar in in, like a human's milk does. And it has lots more protein and fat than cow's milk does. So then I experimented till I found something that would work. And it does work, most of the time.

But even when I mix the proportions perfectly, he won't drink it cold. It has to be warmed till it mimics the temperature of his mother's milk, when she was still around to feed him.

But of course, it can't be hot either.

Microwaves are tricky. Ten seconds might not be enough. Fifteen might be way to much. I've settled on eleven, and if it still feels a bit cool to the touch, I'll put it back in for another three or four.

It's a lot of work, but I don't mind work, if it saves somebody's life.

I just wish I could find a way to save mine.

The kitten is beautiful, too, of course. But he doesn't know it, so it's OK. It's the knowing it that feels hopeless, that feels like a dead-end street you can never get out of.

Plus which, he's male, and males aren't supposed to be beautiful. Or, if they are, they're supposed to be ashamed. Or embarrassed. Or at least blush.

I've done my share of blushing, or at least of turning red in the face, which is probably not quite the same thing. I was sitting in the park the other day, on a bench, of course holding the kitten in my lap, as I always do. It was a warm, sunny day, and I had taken off my sweater, and was sitting there in my short-shorts and shirt.

This guy — I don't know, maybe thirty? — walked by, not even slowing down at first. He said, "Pretty puss."

He didn't add an extra syllable. He didn't have to — I could hear it rattling around in his head.

I'm not stupid or ignorant, or even naïve. I knew what he was doing. I knew what he was implying, I knew what he was saying.

And I got angry.

Now, anger doesn't really accomplish anything in that sort of situation. Plus which when my face gets hot and red when I'm angry, it looks very much like a blush. Many people I know can't tell one from the other.

I didn't know whether this guy could tell or not. I don't think it would have made a difference. All he wanted was some kind reaction. He didn't care if it was a blush or a hot flush. He got the reaction.

And then he laughed.

And that made me even madder.

It's one thing to throw something out there and see if it's caught or not. It's another to deliberately provoke someone.

Yes, I might have played dumb, but in fact I'm not much of an actress. I'm not dumb, and I don't know how to play it. I knew what he was doing and I had to react somehow. So I did.

Girls know. We catch on quick. We're around it all the time, and not just around it. We're up to our elbows in it.

He said it while he was walking, and he kept right on going while he said it. But then he stopped. And turned around. Like he was thinking of coming back. Then he turned around again, and started walking again, and this time kept going.

Thank God.

I certainly didn't want to have to talk to him. If he had made me talk to him, the anger would have come out. Which would have made me seem rude. I hate that. He was the one who was rude, but I was the one who would seem rude if I let the anger out. It's not fair.

If we had talked, he would have said that I had misunderstood him. That he hadn't meant it the way I took it. He would come off looking like he was in the right and I was paranoid. Guys always find a way to come off looking like they are in the right.

But I guess he realized how young I was, or something. So he retreated.

Not that guys always care. Some guys — some even older than he was — will come on like I'm thirty or something. It's a little scary sometimes. What are you supposed to do when that happens? There's nothing you can really do, except get ready to run if if comes to that. Would they do that to a bookish-looking girl wearing round-rim glasses and with a plain face? Most of them, I don't think so. That's what makes it a burden. Knowing that there is something about you that triggered something inside the guy that he feels he has to act on somehow. It almost makes me feel guilty sometimes. Like it's my fault he tries to come on to me. Like my looks somehow give him an excuse. Like being good-looking is somehow like saying 'yes,' even if nothing has been asked yet.

I think that's why some girls get lots of tattoos on their faces, or lots of piercings in their noses. They want to make themselves unattractive to adult men, and they think that will do it. They're wrong of course. A guy like that, he sees through the tattoos and the studs, and comes on anyway.

There's nothing you can do.

Well, there is one thing you can do, and I've done it. You can get yourself a kitten. You can fuss over it like it was a real baby. Like it was your baby. There's nothing that turns a guy off faster than thinking you've done it at least once already, and the baby is the proof. They want to think they're going to be your first one.

As if!

Of course, the kitten can backfire too. It makes you look innocent. Guys say they admire innocence. Why they always try to destroy it when the find it is a huge puzzle, but they always say they like it. And people buy it.

And the other way it can backfire is — it makes you vulnerable. A tiny kitten is vulnerable. And if you're cradling one, it makes you look vulnerable too. And some guys, vulnerable turns them on even more than looks. They think if you're vulnerable, that means you're defenseless, and if you're defenseless then . . . well, I'm sure you know where that goes.

What they have forgotten is that cats can scratch. If you mishandle a cat, even a tiny kitten, it can draw blood. And if you mishandle it badly enough it can scratch your eyes out. Which is what I like to imagine doing when things are threatening to get out of hand. Yes, I'm vulnerable, but don't forget the claws.

Which is the other reason I keep the kitten and try to raise it.

I am the kitten.

And the kitten is me.

Copyright ©2026, Warlen C. Bassham. All rights reserved.