ANNEX OF PERFECTION

By Tsuyunoinochi Koukyo

"You'll never be good enough for this family," a high pitched, gentle female voice told me in a whisper. Her clear angelic blue eyes opened to focus on me, and a tiny little smirk formed soundlessly on her femininely round rosy red colored lips. Porcelain skin without the slightest imperfection glimmered flatteringly under the shimmering moonlight, while shiny blonde hair whipped about softly in the gentle summer breeze.

We stared at each other, her face filled with questions and my own filled with jealousy. Why couldn't I have been born perfect, just like her? What had I done to make me so… unworthy?

In response to my desperate questions, a streetlamp over my head flickered to life in the darkness, highlighting the jagged fingernail-inflicted scars that harshly crisscrossed the unsightly, red, blotchy skin covering my arms, the missing patches of hair on my blemish covered head, the tiny trickles of blood from acne scars and scratches on my tortured face.

She was right. I wasn't suitable to be anyone's family, much less part of hers.

As a knife silently sank into her chest, a fierce hatred filled my body. As she died there on the concrete, gazing wordlessly at me with blood trickling from the edges of her cherry red lips, I realized she was still better than me, if not even more than before . With her cerulean eyes staring wordlessly at the sky, wide open but only slightly aware, she died perfectly.

I was left alone on the concrete, crying into oblivion with my tormented face bent into distressed fingers.


What does it mean to be perfect?

That's my doctor asked me every day at our therapy sessions, and that's what I asked myself as I rested my head against the faded blue padded wall behind me, tilting my scarred face until it was upturned toward the ceiling. Letting out a withering sigh, I began to bang my head against the wall, again, and again, and again. Was there no end to this incessant existence, to this inner anguish? Therapy, medication, non-edible food forced down my throat, sleep. The same routine every day for months upon months, and yet the peace I'd been promised upon my permissive entrance to this facility had not yet come to be.

They paid my wishes no heed; they paid my questions with more questions. I was stuck in this hospital with no end in sight, and forced to face my own mental decomposition as my doctors broke down every piece of my being and threw it down a metaphorical garbage disposal.

Their treatment at the moment was for me to recognize my 'disease', and so here I was—tormented by those freckles and bruises and lesions on the exposed part of my bicep, right above the straitjacket that held my arms stiff. They did this to torment me, those bastards! They were making me face my imperfection, embodied in the scars and freckles and opened wounds that served as a physical reminder of the disappointed frowns on the eternally disapproving faces of my parents and my siblings. I couldn't bear to face those frowns that had once greeted me in the mornings and in the evenings, a constant reminder of the fact that I was and never would be perfect. Of course, even in my demented state of mind, I knew I would never face their disapproval again.

I'd taken care of that.

Stuck with their image in my head and perturbed at the ghastly sight of my torn up flesh, I wailed at the top of my lungs, desiring some of the knock-out pills the nurses gave me every time I threw a fit. Within moments, my high-pitched screams brought the sound of footsteps toward my padded prison. To aid me in my quest for those wonder pills, I began to throw myself around my cell, well aware that I was also stirring the other patients in the cells around me. They began to scream with me, some of them genuinely frightened, and surely some inspired also by the thought of the magical knock out pills. Haldol—the center of our lives here at Shady Green Maple Asylum, the only inconstant factor in a sea of constants.

Within moments of the beginning of my temper tantrum, my cell door was thrown open and I was thrust against the padded wall by two burly male attendants, holding me rigidly while a slender female nurse plunged a needle into my exposed arm. Wordlessly my eyes met hers, and I took comfort in knowing that she was completely unaware that I was the victorious one.

My entire world blacked out.


"Forget about it, Damian. Just forget being perfect, because you'll never get close." My mother's bright blue eyes blazed at me, her crimson stained red lips bent into a disapproving frown that lit up her entire face. Sitting across from her perfectly postured form, I slumped in our deep cushioned burgundy sofa. This den was not for me to be in; it was not my place to be among our fine items of delicate crystal, of our priceless statues and million dollar artifacts. My disheveled form did not belong here.

"Mother, I… I know that," I stuttered, staring down at the perfectly polished cherry wood floor. She scoffed at me loudly, ever the disapproving one.

"Why don't you just give up?" she asked, her clearly pronunciated words stabbing me deeply in my heart. My fingers knitted together in my lap, one of my fingernails locating a recently formed scar and fumbling at the edges of it. "You've shamed this family with your pathetic attempts to become one of us." She gestured angrily toward my shorn hairline, which I'd done recently in an attempt to keep from pulling the strands out and creating scars on my head, and thus limiting my disease's limits. Unfortunately, I'd left myself with a misshapen, deformed, shiny scalp, covered with lesions and scratches and scars from the numerous times I'd ripped strands from my head from stress and boredom.

"I'm sorry…" I murmured. Again, my mother scoffed.

"Shut up, Damian. Just get out of my sight; I can't bear to look at you." She stood up to turn away from me. I rose with her, taking a step toward her perfectly coiffed, stiletto heeled, straight-backed form. Looking surprised and with a small glint of fear in her eyes, she took a step back. Raising my bald head to gaze her in the eye, I revealed the immense anger stored in my eyes and my intentions as I took another step forward.

When the butcher knife I'd pilfered from the kitchen sank into her stomach and her perfect blood spilled over my hands, the pleasure and satisfaction I felt was immense. Licking the crimson liquid off a finger and staring into her eyes as I threw her broken form to the ground, I felt enlightened and excited. I loved to hear the high pitched screams echoing from her mouth, especially as I set to work carving off those lips that had endlessly frowned at me and finally, cutting out that poisonous tongue that had spoken obscenities and disappointment more than any sort of motherly affection toward me.

"How about now, Mother? Am I as perfect as you now?" I asked her jealously, stalking over her crushed form in triumph. The bloodied knife quivered in my excited fingers.

She shook her bloodied head in a final show of denial, and her lifeless blue eyes rolled back into her skull.

Even in death, her beautiful dead form was still perfect. She'd beaten me once again.


"Damian," my female psychiatrist, Doctor Diederich, gently prodded my attention, pronouncing my name with a German fluidity that both annoyed and intrigued me. I turned my head to look at her, my head still cloudy from the powerful and wonderful meds I had graciously been given approximately 12 hours ago. "Damian, how do you feel today?" Her usual question. I decided that she would get her usual answer since she had apparently decided not to be creative today.

Tugging uncomfortably at the straps that held my upper appendages tightly to the arms of the uncomfortable wooden chair, I told her. "Angry." I was. Even though my skin was now covered up by the light blue cotton material I'd worn since the day I'd arrived, I could feel the cuts on my flesh burning for my fingertips to touch it, to scratch it, to tear it off and watch it bleed. My hair was tingling too, rubbing on my cheeks and the back of my neck, fully visible to my darting eyes. I wanted so desperately to grab it in handfuls and rip it out, to feel the blood trickle down my face.

"Why are you angry?" she asked, watching me calmly as I blew a lackluster brunette strand from in front of my eyes.

"Because I'm bound like an animal!" I screamed in a sudden burst of emotion, tugging at my wrist chains to drive my point home. "My arms are always tied together in some fashion! I can't play cards, I can't feed myself, and I can't even write a letter!" Of course, I had no one to write a letter to. My parents and siblings were dead, and I'd alienated myself from everyone else a very long time ago.

Dead. The words were so satisfying to me, yet still they brought no relief to my obvious imperfection. Even now, I yearned for it—I needed it to feel satisfied.

Doctor Diederich said it was an ungratified desire for perfection. I called it a need to be normal.

"You fully understand why your arms are bound, Damian. Perhaps if you wouldn't have had that incident in the cafeteria, we wouldn't have had to do that."

She was referring to my arrival here, during which I'd managed to acquire a fork from the cafeteria, cooped myself up in my room, and proceeded to strip the skin from my body. They'd found me passed out from blood loss a few minutes later, my disheveled and wounded form surrounded by piles of skin. I'd been permanently cooped up in a straitjacket since that day.

Tossing my head dramatically to the side, I stared bullets into the ratty, worn out grayish-blue carpet. At one point, I'm sure it must have been comforting to the patients in the room—now, it was just an eyesore. I sighed. "It was a cry for help."

"It was a cry for help, Damian. That's why you're here now, to keep you from being a danger to yourself. I want to make you better so you can go out into the real world and feel normal, and lead a normal life."

"I'll never be normal," I muttered, flicking my downcast eyes in her direction. Whatever emotion they were filled with visibly startled her, causing a little part of my heart to quicken with excitement. I smiled, but it wasn't a warm smile. She shivered, meeting my eyes with reluctance.

"You'll be normal, Damian. With the right amount of medication and a few therapy sessions a week, you'll be back out with the rest of us in a matter of months." She tucked a piece of her perfect brunette hair behind her ear, the fluorescent white lamp above her head catching the polished glint of her eye length locks. I was jealous of her hair, so healthy and voluminous and glossy.

The rest of us. Right—the billions of perfect people across the globe I did not deserve to live side by side with.

As if to throw the jealousy back in my face, another lock of my faded, distressed, tattered brunette hair fell in front of my face. Progressively irritated, I blew it back on top of my head.

"You forgot to mention that I'll be living in an orphanage until I turn 18, unless I'm still here. Oh yes, and I'll be on probation for the next two and a half years after I leave, and I'll have to suffer through therapy and medication for the rest of my life." Calmly ripping at the cufflinks that bound my upper body to the chair, I gazed evenly at my clueless doctor. "I will never be normal."

She glanced at her watch, wrapped around a slim, tanned wrist. She cleared her throat and straightened the collar of her ivory white button up blouse. "We'll get you there someday, Damian. I promise." She signaled to someone behind me.

Behind me, the barred security door to the therapy room opened and two burly female nurses came in and escorted me from the room. I wondered how it was that even them, with their gigantic muscles usually only seen on men, looked perfect to me.


Doctor Diederich told me once that the reason I never got better was because I refused to accept the notion that I could never be perfect. She told me that perfection didn't exist, and that my family was wrong to put such pressure on me. I knew she just didn't understand. She'd never met my family before—she'd never seen how my elder sister shook out her shimmering blonde hair just a little bit to make the boys at her high school go crazy eyed and acted like they had spines made of jello. She'd never met my father, whose charming white smile made him the star auto-salesman, company favorite, and employee of the year at the Bugatti dealer he worked at. She'd never interacted with my mother, who with her sweet Southern hospitality and whimsical personality made friends with every single person she'd ever met in her life, and kept them as a friend. She never knew, and never would know, the perfection that had surrounded me since I was born.

And then there was me, the bad seed in the family. Me, with my lackluster brunette hair, whilst everyone else had blonde. Me, with my dull brown eyes, whilst everyone else had blue. Me, with my lanky body frame, my pale colored complexion, the acne that had dotted my facial features since boyhood. My appearance was inadequate, as my family, my peers, and my mirror reminded me every day of my life ever since I had been old enough to understand the word.

Imperfect.

Even now, their perfect rotting corpses were laughing in my face.

"Mr. Hartlock? Mr. Hartlock, are you all right? Oh nurse, please grab him some water," a soft female voice said. It sounded like my mother's voice, although that sweet bells-in-the-wind tone had never been so kindly aimed toward me.

Anyway, she would never speak again. I'd cut out her tongue and carved off her lips when I'd killed her, jealous of her faultlessness. And yet still, as she'd screamed in agony, my brain was aching mercilessly as her mellifluent voice leaked out through her lipless mouth, still perfect in theory.

"Mr. Hartlock?" the voice called again. I opened my eyes to a pretty nurse who was staring not at me, but at the scars that crisscrossed and jagged across my almost translucent skin. I smiled through cracked lips, choking down the water that she so kindly held to my mouth after another nurse, a woman I had come to know as 'Miss Chuckles' had brought the cup to her.

"Hello," she greeted, smiling, her perfect sea-blue eyes crinkling up at the corners at my enthusiasm for the water, which couldn't have tasted better at this moment—not with her hand holding the cup to my mouth. "I'm Nurse Narcissia, but you can call me Miss Narci if you'd prefer. Everyone I know does."

"Hi," I whispered once the cup of water had been consumed. I was so thirsty all of a sudden. "More," I stated greedily, feeling such an intense desire for water that I felt like I would shrivel up right here and fall into her lap. Miss Narci smiled.

"Let's walk you to a water fountain, then. It's almost time for group therapy anyway." She stood up, her pencil skirt inching up her thighs just a bit as she did, and then she was reaching down to me and helping me stand up.

And so Miss Narci walked me to the water fountain and then to therapy, and I thought in my head throughout our walk that she was so kind and lovely—she made me think of my elder sister when it came to her gentle treatment of her string of boyfriends.


Therapy was as it always had been, a circular placement of brightly colored chairs around one particularly large orange chair, used as the headquarters for the perfectly round buttocks of our group therapist, Miss Waterlily. As always, she began the Wednesday afternoon session with our 'pledge to get healthy', as she called it. Following that, she began to question each one of us regarding our progress in our illnesses since last Wednesday. We repeated the same things we always did, mechanically, robotically, as if they were lines in a play, though I honestly thought everyone else in the room was making genuine progress, compared to me—I'd merely accomplished a few conversations with Doctor Diederich without yelling at her at some point, although Miss Waterlily did tell me that was improvement on my attitude.

Today's theme of conversation was family aid. The patients sitting next to me couldn't help but talk about their significant others and how much they'd helped their recovery so far, and how their mothers and fathers had stopped by at least twice a week and encouraged them to keep going. One of the patients, who had immigrated from France, described how her parents over in France had actually bought a home nearby and were living there until their precious little daughter was released—she'd been put here because of her bird-like affinity for shiny things, and was taken in by police for thieving an costly Mercedes Benz from the local town's resident millionaire and subsequently crashing it into a tree.

Throughout the entire session my inner anguish grew, until I began to imagine that a tiny little ball of rage was actually sitting inside my heart and that if anyone provoked me, I would explode and kill all the people in this room. I hated families. I hated talking about them, and I hated hearing about them, and I loathed that everyone had forgotten about my past and how much my family had hurt me.

My turn came. I wondered if Miss Waterlily recalled that the reason I was in this godforsaken place was because of my family. When she and the rest of the blue cotton clothed idiots who sat in a circle around me stared with curiosity at my clearly unwilling form, I realized incredulously that she did not.

"I hated my family. They are the reason I'm stuck in this godforsaken asylum," I stated coldly, shaking out my lackluster brunette hair and flinging the lengthy strands all around my disheveled form. Miss Waterlily's mouth dropped open in light of my obvious confession. "I killed all of them. I killed them because of their obsession with my imperfections, because they called me different. I hate them. I hope they're burning in hell right now."

A piece of my hair flew in my face. My little ball of fury, which I'd been trying to hold in up until now, broke.

I began to scream wildly, flinging my long brunette strands around in an effort to propel myself out of this chair and out of reality. I stood up and stormed at Miss Waterlily, my eyes that were streaming tears of agony focused on ripping her perfect Asian face into shreds of skin. I wanted to send her to the same place my family had gone, terribly troubled at her obvious ignorance of my past.

"Get him out of here!" she screeched, flinging her hands up to protect her face as I lunged at her with my teeth, my arms still bound tightly to my chest. From behind me, I heard the swift movements of an attendant. Arms wrapped around my midsection and I was lifted from the ground, my feet loose in the air. As I begin to wail and kick wildly at my lack of control and the anger that was furiously emanating from my mangled form, three more attendants rushed at me and held me taut as a needle was plunged into the exposed flesh on my shoulder. With all of the other patients watching with wild eyes, I fell into the delightfully dark grip of haldol once again.


My father was laughing at me with his cerulean eyes, seated behind his gargantuan mahogany desk. He was typing something on his computer, but his gaze wasn't focused on whatever that was. He was staring at my uncomfortable form, standing taut in the double doorway with my fingers clasped together at my waist.

"Father, you summoned me?" I inquired gently, my head bent toward the floor in shame. His office had such a powerful presence; it was willing my ghastly body to get out and never come back. I didn't belong here, it said to me.

My father laughed at me, his hands ghosting over his computer keyboard. His masculine facial features contorted in disapproval as he looked me over, from my shredded bald head to the broken black sneakers on my pigeon-toed feet. He shook his head, his gleaming blonde strands of hair curving in the wind this motion created. "You're disgusting," he said in response, his lips curving into the same look of disapproval my mother often wore. Tears came to my eyes as his words hit the nerve I'm certain he was hoping they would.

It was mere seconds before I'd crossed the room and dragged the same bloodied butcher knife that had killed his beautiful wife across his neck. His crimson lifestream sailed across the room, splattering across his shuddering fingers atop his raised keyboard and across the dust-free screen where he'd been typing out an email that merely stated 'help me' to no one. I watched the fire die in his cold blue eyes, disturbed by the smirk on his face.

"You'll never win, Damian…" he uttered, his final words before his head fell back against his high-backed black leather hair. A drop of blood plummeted from the corner of his open lips, sailing gently across his tanned chin before dripping off the masculine jaw line to drip onto the plush beige carpet that covered the floor.

I would never win their affections; I could never match their perfection. Their death messages haunted my brain, patronizing me as I fell to my knees and shrieked, my fingernails tearing at my bare scalp as I tried to rip my head into pieces.


My eyes opened to the pretty face of Miss Narci. She was smiling kindly down at me, her perfect features highlighted by a fluorescent light behind her shimmering blonde head of hair. Through the hazy veil of the haldol that still raged in my system, I vaguely smiled in return, basking in the soft cotton sliding across my abdomen as she lifted the hospital shift over my head. She was in the process of giving me a daily sponge bath, as I had long ago been deemed incapable of washing myself. A slight nervousness grew in my stomach, knowing that this pretty nurse was about to uncover all of the unsightly wounds that decorated my tortured body, the same wounds that had inflicted an urge to regurgitate in many of the nurses in her position in the past.

Tossing aside this factor, something glorious finally occurred to me as my nurse steadily prepared a bucket of water behind my limp body, sprawled lifelessly across a noisy plastic covered mattress.

My arms were free.

For the first time in months, my arms were free! I moved the stiff appendages around testily, watching the delicate facial features of my nurse before daring to make any sudden movements. I sat up, reveling in the simple free movements most of the rest of the patients took for granted every day. I examined the body that had been confined within my hospital garments for so long, the scars that decorated my torn alabaster skin glistening harshly under the same light that was so flattering to my exquisite nurse. From behind me, I heard her gasp. She stepped into my vision, her fingers reaching up to graze the plethora of wounds.

"Mr. Hartlock…?" she said softly, tracing the slashes on my arms and across my chest. My eyes followed her touch, my fingers aching with the urge to rip at the exposed flesh. "Are these… why you're here?" she whispered, unable to remove her eyes from the dark pink lesions that marred my pallid flesh. I sighed, thinking the answer quite obvious even for those unfamiliar with my condition.

"Yes." My tone was flat and impassive, as if thousands of people had asked me the same question. She looked surprised and a little offended at my attitude. Shaking her thoughts away, she carefully forced my body down onto the mattress and dipped the sponge into the bucket of water. Rinsing it out, she began with the bath, each movement delicate and precise. I watched her closely, intrigued by her obvious ballerina like grace as she ran the sponge over each part of my body—my pectoral muscles, my underarms, the slope between the end of my ribcage and my prominent hips.

She ran the angel wing soft sponge over each one of my cuts multiple times, intensely concentrated on cleaning each area as thoroughly as possible. She was using the sponge as a metaphoric eraser, cleansing my body of its past and its present condition. It was like becoming a new being, this life changing bath given by an angel of mercy. She regarded me with a half lidded smile as she began to undo my hospital issued blue cotton pants. Sliding them down my shredded thighs, her wide blue eyes drank in every cut, every scar, every flourishing imperfection that covered my body. With her powerful eraser, she began to wipe at those lesions too, tearing away any lingering flaw and leaving only her gift to me on my skin—her flattering perfection.

My skin glowed like it never had before, I thought as I stood up to examine myself. Miss Narci stood back against the blue padded wall, her porcelain skin glowing perfectly. I stroked my body gently, obsessed with the pale glint I never thought my tainted body could possess. My body was glowing just like hers… glowing with the same care, the same immeasurable perfection.

"I almost look… perfect," I murmured dreamily, caught in the spell of my glinting skin.

"You'll never be good enough for this family," my elder sister's voice taunted me, over and over again until it became a permanent echo in my head that was suddenly spinning with accusations. I held my hands out in front of me, watching a red bump form on the meaty flesh between my thumb and pointer finger on my right hand. Staring incredulously at it, I reached up and scratched at it absentmindedly. It grew. I scratched at it again.

"Forget trying to be perfect, Damian. Your disgusting body will never be good enough for this world. You pick at your skin as if you were diseased… you rip at your hair as if it didn't belong there. You've disappointed me; you've disappointed this entire family. While we remain flawless and perfect, you bring down this family with your disease, with your… flaws."

Completely unaware of the turmoil occurring in my mind, Miss Narci carried the water from my sponge bath out into the hallway and shut the door behind her, securing it. She'd left me unclothed and straitjacket-less, free to rip and pick at my flesh as I pleased.

Red bumps kept forming on my body—on my legs, on my stomach, on my feet, my hands, my wrists—it took me mere moments to tear at the imperfections with my inch-long fingernails, uncut from months of confinement in that damned straitjacket. I groaned in pain as I tore strips of skin from a pale arm, a chunk from my leg, a lump from my cheek. My entire body felt like it was falling apart; I looked as if I were bleeding from every pore in my wounded body, as I continued scratching, ripping, prodding at my skin, at those ever-present red spots that served as a visual reminder of how pathetic I was.

The door to my cell swung open, and Miss Narci stood motionless, staring at me. Her mouth fell open in a silent 'o'. "Oh my god," she uttered, falling to her knees. I looked up from ripping at my leg long enough to meet her dulled blue eyes, creased in confusion and helplessness. "Damian…"

"Help me," I begged, quoting the email my father had been sending to an unknown person before I'd killed him. "Please, help me." I reached out to her, a drop of blood dripping from underneath a long fingernail and falling silently on the floor. She shook her head in silence, bowing her head.

"Damian… oh my god…" she repeated, over and over again. She crawled into the room and shut the heavy reinforced door behind her, her perfect coif hiding her crying eyes. Rolling onto my bloodied hands, I crawled on my wounded appendages the few steps to her shaking body. "Why do you do this to yourself?" She looked up to meet my stare with unbelieving eyes, gazing down my bloody flesh as pools of the sweet scented crimson liquid pooled beneath me.

"I can't help it," I whispered, scratching angrily at the underbelly of my lower left arm, where an itch had developed. "My skin has a rash… I want to scratch it off. I want to please my family and show them that I'm perfect, like them, but that rash is so unsightly…" I scratched at my face, pulled at strands of my dark hair with my other hand. I ripped a chunk out from my scalp, shuddering when blood trickled down my face. Miss Narci went pale.

"Damian, stop it," she whispered, her voice shaking. In response, I ripped off a loose piece of flesh on my leg and tossed it onto the red stained floor beneath my wounded body, picking at a scar on the back of my ankle.

"Help me," I said to her again. The pain was almost overwhelming, but my fingers wouldn't stop moving. I ripped another chunk of hair from my scalp, balling the pieces of hair in my clenched fist. Holding the fist to my mouth, shuddering with pain, I bit into it with sharp teeth as an intense, roaring pain erupted in my flesh. "Please," I whispered between breaths. "Help me. Oh my god, make the pain stop…"

With each tear of flesh, I could feel the thought of perfection swarming at my mind, and I wanted it more than ever. I could see the faces of my dead family in my head, their flawless countenances snubbing me with disgust. I wanted to be like them; what made me so different?

"Make me perfect," I murmurred, half unaware of Miss Narci's hands on my bloody naked chest as she pushed me onto the floor. I compliantly sprawled out, my fingers still actively roaming around my wounded body. "Kill me…"

I felt something sting my left wrist, and then the sharp pain was gone again. The same stinging pain in the right wrist, also gone as quickly as it had come. And suddenly my hands wouldn't move compliantly anymore. My limbs felt lighter. My cuts and scratches stopped aching; their pain moved quickly to a dull throbbing.

"What did you do to me…?" I murmured slowly. My mouth wouldn't work as quickly as I willed it to. She must have stung me with a needle filled with haldol, or thorazine perhaps.

Her eyes clouded with sadness. She grasped at my hand gently, allowing a few tears to fall from her heavenly blue eyes. The feeling in both of my hands faded, until her warm hand in mine was just a dull memory. My head fell to the side; my eyes fell onto a deep gash running vertically along my wrist, bleeding profusely onto the floor to join the rest of the tainted crimson liquid.

She slit my wrists. My world was fading quickly as I realized what she had done, and that my time left was unmistakably short. I took a serene moment to offer a quick prayer, as I'm certain many dying persons before me had felt the need to do. Finally, oh, finally, my lifetime of obsession was coming to an end.

The perfect death was upon me.

Next to me, Miss Narci, my beautiful angel of death, leaned over to whisper into my ear, "I'm so sorry your life had to play out like this…"

My eyelids slid shut with the feeling of her silky lips on my ear, and my consciousness slipped away. Finally, my time was here. Finally, I would have the upper hand on my family. Finally, I could join them in their perfection—finally, I was part of their exclusive club.

The perfect death was upon me. And somehow, I knew my beautiful family would be waiting for me with open arms and open wings, waiting anxiously to finally welcome my tortured body into their perfect world.

Author's Notes: Well, there it is! My first story in like, FOREVER. D: Definately a different kind than I'm used to writing, but still definately cool! :) I wrote it as an entry to the livejournal writing community 'The Write Away'. Yay for inspiration! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this, and please review if you have the time! :)