A/N: I have no clue what this is about, I have no clue where this has come from, but it confuses the hell out of me. I kind of like it though, because I like character insight stories. The writing isn't very good, but I jotted it out quickly- the idea popped up and I couldn't lose it.

Warnings: Pretty mild story, considering me. Just strong words, angst and a vague mention of suicide. It's rated T just in case, because I'm not good at judging wether its acceptable or not for it's rating.

Perfection

She's tired... tired of so many things.

She's tired of having the constant, pulsing compulsion to be perfect.

She's tired of waking every day to the same routine, same life.

And most of all, she's tired of losing. She's tired of losing the war- and it was a war; full of battles and lies and fighting- losing her sanity to Derek Venturi. She's so fucking tired its hard to keep her eyes open sometimes, hard not to seem like the living dead.

The worst part of it all: Derek knew it. Not only did he know she was losing it, he was loving every moment of it. Every second of pain Casey felt, every moment of desperation and struggling was what he thrived on. Casey secretly thought he was sadistic; other's pain made him feel complete. She never voiced it outloud, because not only did she think it, she feared it. She had to believe there was humanity in him- something worth trying to save.

Her need to be perfect also gave her a need of making everything perfect. She had never found anything she hadn't been able to fix... anything she couldn't help with her lists and organization and her perfect touch. She hated herself for the urge, the all consuming need to perfect the world.

Derek was- he was different. It was slowly dawning on Casey he may be the only exception to her rule... and that, possibly, scared her more then imperfection.

Just because she had to have perfection didn't make her like it. In fact, she hated the orderly, strict coffin she had constructed for herself. She was fucking choking on the black and white of her life, the straight lines and neutral colors. It was suffocating her, making her sick and yet she still did it, her penance for something she still didn't know; she still tried to perfect the world.

And it was killing her that she couldn't make Derek better. She couldn't change him; she knew that, and he knew that- and he rejoiced at her suffering; her relief at finally not being able to do what she had to, and the bubbling frusteration at the same thing she was relieved at.

So she was tired. She just wanted to go to sleep, to end the confusion and jumble of the world.

She couldn't, though.

She wasn't able to perfect death.