What do you think of when you hear the word 'perfection'? What's the personification of the word that comes to mind for you? I've gotten many answers to that question these last few months, and have realized that the truth for many is quite simple, though it often goes unrealized. Perfection is anything that we wish we were or want most, anything better than us. I remember most of all a young girl who once told me that she envisioned a beautiful red rose as perfection, because it symbolized eternal love, which is also her dearest wish. But then, when you really think about it, can love ever be eternal? This is the question that repeated itself constantly in my head for the longest time, the answers varying within a wildly large range. I believe now that the answer is no, it is not possible. No matter how thinly you spread the fuel for the flame, it'll always disappear in time. The problem is that we simply don't live long enough to figure this out. We don't live long enough at all.

As I sit here writing about this, my mind goes back to who I was at the beginning of my junior year of high school. The word 'perfect' comes to mind again as I do. I know for certain that some saw me as perfect, as the girl who had everything. Did it make me happy? Back then, it did, yes. I see now that I was a shallow fool to feel that way. I was far from perfect, but my little masquerade went unnoticed by my peers. And, for that matter, by me. When I looked ahead to my future back then, I saw the glorious success that I was sure was held in store for me but a few steps ahead of my current position. So close to achievement, so close to perfection…that's what I thought anyways.

I used to check the mirror constantly before I left the house, making sure everything fell into place just perfectly. Every tiny lock of hair had to be placed perfectly with an almost compulsive need. My hair even back then was a light blue-purple, dyed by my aunt, who had gone into cosmetology as a career back when I was in junior high. I wore the most conservative clothes in the most outrageously fashionable way possible…the envy of all the girls in school. Make-up galore, I wore tons of it to cover up any tiny little imperfection on my face, until it looked exactly as I wanted. Or, more accurately, exactly as those magazine ad girls I now so despise looked. On the outside, I was modest and humble, while inside I was just absorbed in my own self-love. I wonder at times how many people I stepped on…how many people I hurt. It's best not to ponder things like that, though.

There's only one thing on the teenager girl's mind besides fashion, and that is the ever-popular topic of men. Not boys, not for me, but men. They were half the reason any of us even bothered with the make-up. That and to create the illusion of perfection to the other females in the school. It was the ultimate goal to be on the head of the gossip mill, not the unfortunate person who got stuck with what was churned out. I wasn't alone in making up lies to make myself look better, and sometimes that's comforting for me to know. Other times I'm wiser, and realize how foolish it is. I wasn't forced to do what I did, no matter how much it seemed so at the time. It was necessary, I told myself back then, and it was usually done over a man. No surprise there, not for those who understand the mindset I was once in.

For a man, I would gladly fight tooth and claw. I would without hesitation stab my best friend in the back with the knife that is desire. Not that it was necessary, of course. There was no one in the school I couldn't have. No one. The people I dated hardly lasted long, though. I became bored and tossed them away in…I think a month was my longest relationship. I can't even remember whom it was with, though. It didn't matter, though, because they were boys. I wanted more than anything a man, a real man. Someone with more maturity than the sex-obsessed little boys that hung around with me. I dated a lot of those. Was I ever called a slut for that? Oh yes, most definitely. Jealous little freaks, I used to think. I hadn't slept with any of those guys, not that they didn't insist on it. I wasn't that kind of girl, and I'm still not. It's almost ironic, in a way…because maybe if I had slept with one of them, I wouldn't have been so vulnerable to what was to come.

I remember the exact day that my entire life changed. No matter what anyone else says, that was the day. I even remember the outfit I was wearing, a black spaghetti-strap tank and skinny jeans. Two silver studs adorned each of my ears, and a black necklace with silver chains. Adorned by my feet were sleek black flats. Every detail still rings true in my mind, that's how important it was.

The event occurred right between seventh and eighth period during the early spring, and I was gathering my books at my locker for advanced math class. That was when I caught my first glimpse of true 'perfection'. That was when my perfect dream life began to turn into a nightmare. That was when my story began.