The Undoing of a Perfect Woman

Hi there my lovelies :) – 2 new stories in a day, wow – I can barely believe it myself, but I hope you like them!

This story is completely unedited, so if you do see the errors, I'm sorry, and I will get to them as soon as I can. :)

As you can see, this is my new story, The Undoing of a Perfect Woman, and like my other story, it's only a short story. I originally wrote this, for my Higher Schooling Trials Certificate (which if anyone else here from Australia will know of :P ) and was for my Extension English subject. As such, the piece had to be based off a character from one of my core texts, so I chose the late poet, Sylvia Plath (seriously people, go check out her work, it's phenomenal!) 

Now, to get the ugly stuff out of the way, I do own the plot and characters and setting. The character is initially based upon the poet, Sylvia Plath, but this is very loosely, more of how I would imagine what it would be like in her body. Copying this story is prohibited and I will not refrainfrom reporting you to Wattpad if I must.

I'm so sorry for the majorly long author's note, but now, I hope you enjoy this :D

Glassy, x

 (P.S. for all of you who actually took the time to read all this crap, you're awesome and deserve awesome sauce)

The Undoing of a Woman

I feel my face curve up into a smile, but I barely feel it. My face, a picture of everything a woman should be. My heart beats – it pounds against my chest, informing me of, once again that it is trapped. I am trapped. The sound of children’s squeals fill the air. They remind me of seagulls. I smell and taste the air of cooking dough and melted chocolate. It consumes me. My eyes leave their position of stuck to the grandfather clock and return back to the oven. Bending down I take out the tray of freshly baked cookies.

I want to be pleased that they are perfect. I desire to feel a sense of accomplishment for my hard work. I am empty. The striking of the clock causes me to jump, dropping the cookie currently in my hand. I raise my hand to my chest, as if to hold and calm my racing heart. Malicious and malevolent intent shoots through causes and me another loud groan of protest from the dinosaur; begging me for mercy. Today I am feeling merciless.

The children leave, off to play with their friends and I am glad. I love my children, but Lord help me, I cannot stand being alone with them. My heart quickens again as my mind flushes with unholy, immoral thoughts. No. I stop the wicked, plaguing thoughts. The clock strikes again, reminding me once again, that I am still stuck in reality.

The 300-year-old wood looks well kept and polished. It looks new. It retains its beauty – its effervescent and everlasting charm. I hate it. Clocks, clocks, clocks, clocks, clocks! I am surrounded by time. I hate time as much as I hate clocks! I move. I can no longer stand the prospect of being near it anymore. It repels me. I make my way to the bathroom to wash the remnants of flour off me. As the warm water cascades over my cold, unfeeling hands, I stare at the purity of the water. Holy mixing with the unholy. Is this what God feels like towards humanity? I question. Does He watch in abhorrence from above, as his holy servants mix with us unholy creatures? Does He feel disgust?

I rip my hands from the faucet. I do not want to be purified. Little glistening droplets sit whimsically on my fingers. Raising my hand to my face, I swear for a second, I can see the face of God in the droplets. I look to my reflection in the mirror. Golden curls sit on my shoulders. Green unseeing eyes stare blankly back. A womanly face with pink lips tentatively smiles. I am a perfect woman. I am only thirty. My heart starts again, endlessly pounding away.

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped, it repeats. A song is created. The beats of the world join in. Bang. Tick. Trapped. Bang. Tick. Trapped.

I can no longer stand it. I run. Down to the basement, I know there is a bat. I shove, I break. I tear everything apart until the cold, solid metal is resting in my cold, unfeeling hands. I stand in the kitchen once again. My piercing gaze hatefully destroying the detested clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. The song continues.

Raising the bat, I strike at it, like Babe Ruth hitting out of the park. A tiny dent in the clock shows. A tiny imperfection. It mocks me, standing there laughing at my torment – the torture that it makes me suffer. My mind brazens, my sight becomes hazy as I raise the bat repeatedly, striking at the world. I do not tire until all that is left is broken glass from the cover. Despite my hate-filled posture and expression, I maintain my looks of perfection. Bringing the bat down, the reflective surface. Sweat beads fall into my eyes but I cannot stop. I cannot look at myself any longer. I break all mirrors – all reflective surfaces.

“Mummy?” a voice cries into the house. I stand alone in my bedroom. One last mirror – the biggest of them all. I hate this one the most – almost rivalling my hatred for the clock. Smash. I bring the bat up to it. Smash. Shatter. I continue my rampage of damage and destruction.”

“Mummy?” the little girl screams.

“Sylvia?” a deep, masculine voice now calls. My husband is home.

I cringe at the sound of his voice. His stupid, perfect voice, in that stupidly perfect body. Good god do I hate that man. I hate the love of my life, with all his stupid little perfections... The only imperfection in his life... is me.