Due to Marth's scenario—being pushed into a position of power at a very young age and his relationship with his father and his slightly masochistic (to the extent that he'll try to keep his friends from bearing his burdens), I feel like I can really get inside his head at times. I'm sorry it's taking me so long on The Game. I've been very busy. XD

This angst is a bit "harder," I guess, than the other angst I've written, mostly because it's much more personal to me this time. It's also pretty abstract, and I'm not sure if I like the way it turned out or not. Hrm. The reactions to this fic will determine whether I keep it up or not. I just want to try something new.

Disclaimer: Marth doesn't belong to me.

EDIT: I wrote this kinda late last night, and morning brought new revelations, so I changed the ending a bit. XD First time I've done a major tweak, but I didn't like the original cheesyness.

Please read, enjoy, and review.

xXx

Shatter

I am obsessed with perfection. It dominates every aspect of my life, from the way I dress to the way I talk to the way I think about people. Perfect perfect perfect. Everything has to be perfect, or it isn't worth having. A ninety-nine percent is as bad as failing; a corrected misstep is as bad as falling flat on your face in front of everybody. A misspoken word is like ending a relationship. Imperfect people were not to be dealt with.

I raised myself to think like this; to throw out everything that I decide isn't worth my time, to judge based on first impressions, to judge based on every impression.

Perfect perfect perfect.

Everybody I associate with has to be perfect. Everything I say has to be perfect. Every movement, every subtle gesture, has to be perfectly planned and perfectly executed.

I have to be perfect.

I have to be absolutely perfect, or I feel like I'm about to fall apart.

Because people are always watching. Their gazes are like daggers, piercing me whenever I move the wrong way or say the wrong thing, and the pain that accompanies the realization that I screwed up is the same too. It makes me want to die, these imperfections. If I had one wish—just one wish—it would be for me to be perfect. I could fix the world, I could end war and hunger and all of these problems, but I know I would choose to end my own imperfections.

And that in itself was not perfect either.

There was no way out.

I recognize this.

I accept this, but I still try. I know I try. I have yet to lose a match, I have yet to offend someone with one of my carefully articulated speeches, I have yet to receive a negative comment.

It isn't even close to enough, because I am not perfect yet.

I feel like I am trapped inside a glass dome, surrounded by the people who are always—relentlessly—watching. A more artistic person may have come up with a better analogy. I need to be more artistic. More outgoing. More approachable. More assertive. Louder. Braver. Stronger. Smarter. Tougher. I have to be better than everybody else, because anything less is imperfection, and that is not to be tolerated.

It feels like I am being dissected, like everything I do is being critiqued. Everybody is watching, eternally watching, looking for some chink in my armor.

And they cannot find one. If they find one…

I would fail.

This is my line of thought for the majority of my life. Perfection must to be strived for. If you turned away from the goal, then you were a coward—you were not meant to be a ruler. If you were not perfect, you brought shame upon your family. Only by being absolutely perfect could you be considered worthy to stand next to your father in a portrait, or even share his last name.

And people are always watching, projecting their own ideals of perfection onto me, making it even more difficult, but I have to do it anyway.

Perfect perfect perfect.

I want to be perfect. I long for that perfection, for that day when I can lie in bed and look up at the ceiling and not force myself to reflect on everything that I had done wrong or poorly. Just once, just for an instant, I would like to have no regrets.

But that's impossible. Everybody has regrets. It's part of being human. Natural.

I try to tell myself this. I clutch the bedcovers or the side of the sink and try to make myself believe those words. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to make myself think that way.

I won't listen. I want hold onto the tattered ideas that my father had given me, the words that told me I was worthless if I did not measure up to him, because that was all I had left.

It shouldn't matter. Humans are supposed to make mistakes. You're human. You can mess up.

YOU CAN'T. You're different. You're different than everybody else. You're special. You're a KING. You cannot mess up.

I feel like I'm trying to trick myself, to create an excuse for giving up.

What an idiot.

What a waste.

I can do better.

I can always do better.

I'm imperfect.

A failure.

I know this is true. Nobody will ever be completely satisfied with me. My father wanted me to be stronger. The people here want me to be friendlier. My sister wants me to be more loving.

But what do I want?

To please them all. To not fail. To not be scared of failing.

I just don't want to be scared.

That's cowardly. What are you, boy, a coward?

"Yes," I admit, and hang my head so I don't have to see that sorry look in my eyes that should never be there. I should never feel sorry for myself. There is nothing to feel sorry about. I am nearly perfect.

...

If only nearly was good enough.

Good enough for who?

The thought floats into my head and sits there for a minute, processing. I look back into the mirror, and the confusion and indecisiveness is clear in my face.

Imperfect child, the familiar voice whispers. Indecisive. Confused. Stupid.

You need to be per—

"No I don't," I whisper, and the words are so treasonous that I can't believe I said them out loud. I look up, and blue eyes stare widely back at me, equally horrified that I could say something like that.

How could I…?

…Could I…?

You need to be perfect. Perfect perfect per—

"I don't," I repeat, more forcefully this time. "I don't. I don't!"

You need to be perfect. You are a king. You need to be perfect. If you are not perfect, you are a failure. Failures are not to be tolerated you must be perfect perfect perfect all the time you cannot be anything but perfect perfect perfect

"STOP IT! I'M NOT YOU!"

There's a crash, and I look at the shattered mirror, trace a droplet of blood as it winds from my knuckles down my wrist and drops into the sink.

For a moment I can't think. My reflection is fragmented in the few shards of mirror that cling to the frame. The rest of the glass litters the ground at my feet. The world seems jumbled, nothing makes sense.

I am not perfect.

I never will be.

I blink, and something else shatters, and before I can think a single thought about weakness or pitifulness I'm sinking to my knees, arms wrapped around my chest, sobbing.

I have no idea how long I sat there crying amidst broken promises and lies and pieces of mirror, but I know that for that small eternity, I was too tired to think of anything. For a few minutes, nobody was telling me to get up off the floor. Nobody was telling me to be perfect. Nobody was telling me it wasn't okay to be like this.

For that one moment, I had no regrets.

For that one moment, I had nothing.

xXx

I've typed the word 'perfect' so many times in this thing that I keep thinking I spelled it wrong. O.0 …Let me make this clear: I'm not looking for pity or anything. Nor am I trying to bare my tortured inner soul to the entirety of the internet through Marth's voice or anything equally emo and cheesy and unhelpful. I simply wanted to write something a bit heavier than usual because I had a depressing song stuck in my head, and it sort of went to a personal level.

My parents are amazing. I love them, but they're both perfectionists and pretty strict, so my psyche is sort of wired to a perfectionistic nature. And the fact that I wasn't perfect really used to scare me when I was younger. As I grew up, my parents sort of realized what had happened and cooled their jets a little. But I still end up beating myself up over things and screaming "why are you such a failure" in my head whenever something goes wrong, and I wanted to vent.

I'm better now, seriously. I'm a fluffy kid. XD I'm not psychologically damaged or anything, nor am I unique in my predicament. I hope that this piece of writing was sort of entertaining on an interesting level and that it spoke to somebody other than me. ^_^

Please review, because I really have no idea what to think about this piece. I feel like it's so different than what I usually write that I can't hold it to my usual standards.

Please review! I need the feedback!