Feelings bombard me as I lie awake at night, my heart open and my soul stinging. Thoughts of hatered, destruction and anger keep me awake, making me moan, causing me to cry in utter despair.
Yet my life is perfect.
I am beautiful, my parents are well off, I live in a perfect house in my perfect suburb and go about my perfect business every perfect fucking day. The life I live is perfect. I myself am perfect.
Then why do I feel this way?
No one knows the tears I cry alone at night, no one feels the pain, the horror, and the enormity of being perfect. I was created, not born. I was moulded, not formed. My perfect lips, perfect eyes, and perfect hair - all fake. I am an empty vessel of a human, genetically superior, eternally miserable. Built on a computer screen, born of genius, not love. Strategically fashioned, each strand of hair placed delicately, each click of the mouse making me better, making me perfect.
I know not of friends, I know only of whispers and jealousy. Humans are silly creatures; they crave all that is beautiful, yet when it comes along, they are intimidated and scared. Change is alien to them, as am I. Walking along a road, I see couples and children, each one different, each one beautiful. I see a child with a scarred face, skipping happily along, beaming, and he is beautiful. I see an elderly man and woman, they walk slowly, they hold hands, they too are beautiful.
I look in the mirror. I see glossy, shining wavy blonde ringlets, deep, wideset eyes and a pink rosebud mouth. I sigh deeply, yet the creamy skin on my forehead stays smooth, it does not wrinkle when I frown. In fact, it takes a huge effort to frown at all. I do not find myself beautiful. I am like a puzzling painting that you stare at, wondering how the artist created this effect, how he made the landscape so lifelike, how he captured the emotions of the human without forming the human himself… but then you turn away and laugh at a clown, a baby's smile, a balloon, and soon the painting is out of mind. I am the painting. No one wants to love a replica of all considered perfect, no one wants to be the ugly duckling next to the dazzling swan.
I have only one question for the scientist who made me, who wasted his time on his "project" and that is this… if you wanted to create a perfect human for others to stare at, why did you give me a brain and emotions? When asked of the ultimate torture, my answer can only be this - my life.
Perfect by x dork me x
Fiction » General Rated: K, English, Angst & Drama, Words: 460, Favs: 1, Published: 6/11/2001