i'm on a roll!
yeah, anyways, another oneshot should be coming out in the next few days, then i'm updating unconquerable [i always spell that wrong, sighsighandallthat] probably this weekend.
jsyk, ya know.
the a r t of per-fec-tion
She strived for it, she yearned for it.
Perfection.
It.
She always wanted it, she always needed it.
She never got it.
She smiles her half-smile at you, and your insides bubble and fizz, and butterflies are rushing around, and you feel impossibly weightless.
You love it.
A cheesy grin comes over you, and your lips find hers, and they smell like cinnabon, and the lip gloss coats your lips, but you don't mind, and you wipe it off happily and go back for more.
Two months later, you're over- the "golden couple" of BOCD is done.
You regret it.
She smiles.
A blinding, stretchy, smile.
And, if you didn't know her any better, you'd say that it was real.
But you see past it.
You see her eyes.
Full of longing, full of loneliness, full of sadness.
And yet, no one else seems to notice.
You still loved her.
Looking back, you realize that you were weak.
You knew it, yourself.
Weak, yet impossibly proud.
You hate yourself for it.
(and so begins her downfall)
Once it starts, it can't stop.
It controls her.
She thinks that it's the other way around, and she loves knowing that she finally has control of something.
She doesn't know.
It becomes a routine, a relief, and she savors the time before her alter.
The white dots dance around, and her head is foggy, and it clears and for a moment, large black dots replace the white.
She looks away from the toilet- it disgusts her, so imperfect, and quickly flushes.
She grins at her reflection, sees nothing different, it's her own little secret, a coveted little secret.
They notice.
How could they not?
Her hair grows dull, dry, and thin, her nails are chipped and ragged.
They see the signs.
They don't know what to do.
And so they ditch her.
She's too much work, too problematic, too imperfect.
You watch, as they walk away from her, for the very last time.
Her eyes are cloudy and blank.
It worries you.
Can she still feel?
You want to go up and talk with her, you want to fix her, but Dylan drags you away.
She grabs a razor, and her eyes are squeezed shut, and she pulls.
She gasps
(ithurtsithurtsithurts)
Then smiles slightly, and does it again.
Blood, a perfect red drips down, and she watches it fall.
She likes it.
She likes the pain, she likes the release.
She thinks she actually has control over it, this time.
She thinks she's going to win.
(she isn't)
And perfection is all she cares about, she'll do anything to achieve it.
She never realizes that what she's actually achieving is the exact opposite.
It goes on for months, and no one realizes, no one cares enough.
She pulls the razor one last time, and blacks out, and thinks of only one thing.
Perfection.
(are you perfect yet, Massie?)
And she lays in her casket, rock cold, a ghost, and she still isn't perfect, she'll never be perfect.
But maybe she's in a better place, free from shiny white lights and black dots and dizzy spells and excruciating addicting pain and razors and porcelain. Maybe she's in her own little heaven, surrounding her everything she ever wanted, everything she ever deserved, everything she never received.
Then again, maybe she'll never be at peace, never be at rest.
Her white, white marble face is contorted in pain, a gruesome end to a gruesome life, and you hate seeing her like that, you hate seeing the fresh marks visible, a sickening, ugly red.
A tear escapes your eye, and you don't stop it, because she's gone. A ghost, a statue of your fallen angel, and you want to escape, you want to run away, because anything would better than here, staring at her broken body.
Nails dig into flesh, and you try to quiet your mind, quiet the frenzy of memories, of voices, of what if's, and you gulp back a sob, because you have to be strong.
"…left me"
"…you said you'd always be there"
"look at what you did to me."
"just look at me."
The voices are screaming in your ear, and you can't escape them, you can't escape the guilt, the pang in your heart.
But you'll be strong. You'll be strong, and you'll never, ever, ever forget her.
You lay a single rose on the bare tombstone, and step back.
Finally, you've kept a promise.
You never forgot her.
You never will.
And you still can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, if Massie Block hadn't met you, Derrick Harrington, then maybe she wouldn't be dead.
You'll never forgive yourself.
…well?
Review, pleasekaythanks!