Short Stories and Poems

A Perfect Fear

This world, a world known to most as “The Womens' Home for the Emotionally Disabled.” Though the title was very broad, as I had pointed out to the counselor numerous times, they specialized in, as I said in the paragraph before this one, fears and irrational behaviors. Anyway, my schedule would include much avoiding, and though I didn't like the imperfect goings and mostly comings of all so many imperfect people, I mostly stayed in my room every day in my life. I graduated my home school last year perfectly, and now commit myself totally to the art of being totally perfect; to cleaning, and straightening, and keeping myself perfectly presentable. Of course, just to make sure that I don't freak out at every stray hair that I can't get to stay put, I have no mirrors in my room, as I have always thought mirrors to be a symbol of imperfection. Just think about it, people look into them to spot imperfections so that they may fix them, but they always miss so many that every time they look in a mirror I can just count all the imperfections that even they should be able to see.

Sadly, the day had nearly gone by once more, with two meals having been eaten perfectly on hand delivered trays that had not a mark on them. I still had dinner to eat later in the day, in fact, I thought, glancing at one of the many clocks I had fashionably arranged on the wall, it was exactly an hour and twenty-three minutes until I ate my perfectly portioned serving size of all of the exact nutrient values that were listed on the food pyramid. I had similarly arranged lunches, breakfasts, and a snack, which was much like a small brunch. I glanced back at one of my favorite clocks. It was a white, square clock with perfectly even angles in between each number, as well as exact ninety degree corners. Each side of the square was a perfect fifteen inches each, with a perfectly polished sheet of glass placed over the face of it. One of my less exact hobbies was collecting perfect clocks. Clocks, so exact in time, and also in appearance. At least, I arranged the clocks that were brought to me, by the constantly looking grocers that worked for the home. Whenever they saw a clock that they thought would pass my inspection, they gave it to the counselor to present to me, and if it was perfect enough, I placed it in my meticulously choreographed arrangement of clocks on my wall.

I glanced back up at the time once more, making sure that I got everything to the minute. It was exactly twenty minutes until the arrival of my dinner, which meant that my five minutes of preparation had just started. I walked quickly to the door, making sure it was sealed and locked from the inside. I went through my mental checklist of everything that would ensure the perfect continuing of my life. The windows were sealed and locked from the inside and my walls had not a scratch in their perfect, nearly sound-proof covering. My bed functioned also as a safe-house. It was installed into each room, to make sure that the fearful residents had a place to go if they knew they would lose it. Since I never “lost it” I only made sure that my safe-house was secure as a last chance, “if anything goes horribly wrong and I can't correct it” policy. With my calculated movements and mental checks, I walked to the windows that lined one wall to cover them and complete the list before I went into lock-down, but instead of the extra minute that I was almost positive I still had, several large “nurses” were attempting to restrain a flailing woman who looked large enough to hold her own against them. She was fighting tooth and nail to escape away from the place that had made her go off, and was almost succeeding.

It seemed that the men were being a little rougher than usual in their attempts to secure the newest occupant, which seemed to make her go into full out defensive mode. She broke away from the men by using a quick, and in my opinion smartly planned, double back toward the house, through the garden and around to the edge of the fence. The fence was high, and for the usual women, impossible to climb. Just in case, an unsteady layer of smooth stones and pebbles were placed along the fence to create uneven footing. Though they were placed in good thought to the climbing issue, I was sure that wasn't what she had in mind. Grabbing fistfuls of the largest stones she could manage, she flung them at great speeds and distances, making her extremely harmful to the men taking the barrage. They retreated quickly around the other edge of the home, but it seemed the anger and fear fueled rage that she was in had not died off yet. Instead of chasing after her targets, she turned on the house instead. I was captivated for once not by the horrible imperfections, but the beauty and grace that were shoved in such a beefy, well-muscled women that could fight off the men by using both her brute strength and her mind. I must not have been thinking straight the whole time, as I had not moved from the window while watching, and was now several minutes behind schedule. I finally jerked out of my stupor as I realized what danger I was in. She had turned to flinging the large stones at the walls and windows, and the men had not yet realized what was happening, so they hadn't yet tried to stop her. It seemed that the world went for a few seconds in perfect slow motion, an artist had arranged everything so that the fear, wonder, anger and strength all were positioned in a freeze-framed picture of insanity.

In that second that I saw it, I couldn't even accept it. A large stone, about the size of a softball, came sailing through my window in a shower of crystal glass spray. The rock hit me and made me grasp my shoulder in pain as I realized that not only the rock had caused damage, but more so, the glass that had been shoved into my skin roughly. Large shards were protruding from my shoulder and chest, while grains as beautiful as red gems sliced through my arms and face. I felt them tear at my skin, and the perfect drops of crimson left me to mingle with the deadly specks that littered the ground like puddles of still, silent rain water. Screams echoed through the air and mingled with all the others. I faintly recognized one of the screams to resemble my own, but didn't know, because of the ringing and pounding that was accompanying the constant flow of blood. I fell to the ground, feeling even more glass shards shove themselves into my flesh. One particularly sharp piece pierced the skin over my heart, and I saw everything before my own eyes. A rage overtaking the home, the emotionally unstable occupants losing their minds, screaming, becoming harmed, and harming themselves.

It had been a perfectly normal day, a laundry day like any other. Now, as the last drops of life-blood slipped down my flayed skin, I was seeing the beauty in the imperfection, and wasn't this a perfectly imperfect way to go? With gems embedded in my flesh, and my skin torn apart like thin, soft, cream colored paper. The day that life at “The Womens' Home For The Emotionally Disabled” ceased to exist; the day our entire world ended.