Perfection- Short Story Submission

Trigger Warning: Mental health and implied self harm/suicide attempt. Not graphic.

Not once in all of Her days of the concept called living, had She ever felt this way. This way, or that way? There was a right and wrong to things, so this must be wrong. It has to be or else She’s not perfect.  Not once had She sank to the floor, wallowing in such grief that would rather be unspoken by communities and mothers. 

    “My child isn't such a fool. She’s in tip-top shape, right sweetie?”

    Really mother? A mother’s image of perfection never fit her mold, impaling holes through the rubber where edges were too sharp and the rubber could not bear much more. Because no, a little girl is not to find herself, but to be found by another, forced into a persona of which does not match. Alas, no She did not understand. This concept is called mental health? That’s not real right? Because the doctor fixes everything, right? There’s no reason for Her to feel this low because She lives the perfect life, right? Don’t weep or complain, child, you ungrateful scum. There’s more to cry about than the clouds blanketing the sky, than the leaves growing old and falling from their place in the tree. Get up, you lazy bum, you have no need to be tired. 

    But She can’t. Every little fiber of Her being protest against movement, has eliminated all feeling to where She becomes a shell of Herself. Hollow. Empty. Scared. The debilitating urge to get up, to fight against this, this pain. She’s fought that fight though, losing to Herself again, and again. Where did Her strength go? Why is She lying in bed, liquid diamond streaks flowing down flushed cheeks every day until the sun goes down? Why is the sun allowed to sleep, but not Her? Question after question playback like a broken record in Her head days on end until Monday seems like Thursday and everyday is dark, melancholy and uneventful. No one has yet to take notice of Her absence, even Her closest friend, He, has not even attempted. Or has He? She wouldn’t know, Her phone being lost in the large expanse of Her room, yet again, She could not find the will or way to search and respond. Are you okay? Is She okay? She thinks so, there’s no reason for Her to not be.  

    That was a lie, She should stop lying to them. To Herself. She is not okay, but asking for help is a burden, difficult and unimaginable. Because She’s perfect. Perfect people don’t ask for help.

    Right? 

    She can’t be perfect. She is not perfect. She will not be perfect. No one was designed for that level of greatness, even those who get close will always fall short. But She’ll never know that, She’ll never see imperfections as realism. Instead they’re all pointless mistakes. Her brain competes with itself, day after day, a small voice occasionally reminding Her, you need help. But help is for the weak, right? Strong people fight their battles and move on but She can’t. 

    That’s when She finds Herself in the bathroom. The task to get there seemed exhausting, though the walk was short, Her capacity had depleted. Sitting on the cold tile woke Her up, although only minutely. Deep thoughts become deeper as She scrambles to find an escape. An escape from the whirlwind of…nothingness. She had forgotten what it was like to feel, anything. Sitting quietly turns to sobbing hysterically, trembling and screaming, until She finds Her release. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe She needed to feel something to feel something. She did. 

    And it became routine. She never was the same, not at all. Her mind overflowed with anxiety and meaningless meanings to the world around Her. Even when He came back. He talked to Her, listened to Her, fought and cried with Her. He was dedicated, yet She was never truly thankful. Thankful that He took the time from His day to be Her guide when She wasn’t in Her right mind. It was supposed to help…right? 

    Something must be wrong with Her, because the days aren’t supposed to feel the same. The parties, the amusement parks, the teenage fun, it all felt, the same. The same as in no happiness or genuine smiles. He noticed, but kept a distance. She wanted to cry out so badly, hold onto Him and never let go because Her body felt as if it would escape itself if she had no tether. Simultaneously, She also wanted to push everyone away, force everyone to leave Her, allow Her to drown in self pity alone, if that’s what you could call it. At least, Her mother called it that. 

    Months pass and eventually enough is enough. She’s tired, exhausted, gassed and wrung out bone-dry by the task called living. She did it, every day, with Her release but even this day. This forsaken day, it wasn’t enough. 

    And so She was done. She did not think twice about Him, or Her mother, or anyone else because they would not think twice about Her. To Her assumption. There would be no difference, with or without Her. So She took one last walk. She walked and walked until the sun settled just above the horizon, emitting a lovely orange hue across the town. And oh, how She wished She could see it, even smile at it, one last time. Arriving at the lake didn’t startle Her, there were no thoughts left for Her to think, no feelings to feel. And it was at that moment there was peace, peace and the gentle beating of Her heart. That, and approaching footsteps accompanied by panting breaths. She closed Her eyes tightly, wishing whoever it was to go away until they stopped running and became a looming figure, towering over Her. The silence was heavy, until He spoke. He spoke and She listened, Her mind waking to the realization of Her actions as He spoke. All it took was Him. Begging, asking, pleading with Her. 

“Please, don’t do it.”