Perfection, Karinne Robbins

Perfection

I sprint towards my room, throwing my bag down on the floor. It lands with a loud thunk. If someone were here, they would have surly heard that thunk. But no. I am all alone. All alone. I make it to my room. I stand behind the door, making sure it stays closed, while I survey my surroundings. Black covers, white bed frame. Black rug, white furniture. Black shades, white lamp. A perfect room, in a perfect world, for a not-so-perfect person. I walk around without a purpose, staring at this place, this prison. No color. No hope. I move to my dresser and look in the mirror. A girl stands before me. She has brown hair. I look closer and see brown eyes, red and weary. She stands out among the symmetry and neatness of the room. I check the clock at my bedside table. 10:00 p.m. I should go to bed, but my heart races, blood pumping fast, like a horse sprinting around and around a trampled track. Instead, I reach into the middle drawer of my dresser and pull out a worn out composition notebook, filled with crinkled, off-white pages. The pages are covered from top to bottom with my messy, smudged handwriting. Written over and over are four little words. I am going insane. I can hear my heart beat from its cage inside my chest. A scream pushes my lips apart, threatening to break loose. I stare at the ceiling and cringe, eyes watering. My entire body shivers from the flawless whiteness of it. Too much perfect. I put the notebook back into my drawer and slam it shut. I crawl into my bed and stare at this pristine room. My prison. Four little words swim past my eyes as I drift to sleep. I am going insane...I am going insane. *** My mother walks in on me sitting on my bed, staring aimlessly at a corner of my brilliant, white wall. Her high heels click as she taps her foot impatiently on the wood floor. She looks stunning in a knee-length skirt and crisp, white blouse. Of course, endless amounts of plastic surgery never hurt, either. “Jane, you need to be ready for church in 20 minutes. We cannot be late again,” she says in her all powerful ‘mother-knows-best’ voice. I groan loudly, but either she doesn’t hear or she doesn’t want to hear. I wouldn’t blame her. Too her, I am this problematic child. The world probably hasn’t seen a person like me since World War III, in 2021. A person who doubts herself, who doesn’t fit into society. Improper. Imperfect. After WWIII, everything got solved. Poverty, hunger, religion. It was all fixed. No more problems. We live in a perfect world now, one where nobody fights for power. Peace thrives. Perfection is the key that fits the lock to this new society. But I’m missing that key and the door is shut on me, locked forever. I shiver, wishing life could have been as simple as everyone had planned so long ago. Mom comes in at promptly 7:20 a.m. I wear a simple pleated, gray skirt and a dove colored shirt. She gives me a once over and scoffs, but doesn’t say anything. I breathe with relief. I enjoy silence.

We walk out of the house. I try to keep in step with the clack clack clack of Mom’s heels, but I fumble and lose my step. She looks at me with her laser sharp eyes, and my face turns the color of a cherry. She gives an exasperated sigh and keeps walking. I just keep stumbling. *** I sit at my desk, writing over and over, “I am going insane” with vigor in the composition notebook.

I drop my pencil. My fingers tingle and cramp from using so much force. The yellow paint is smudged from being used so often. My heart pounds, shaking my ribcage, threatening to break out of my heaving chest. Thump…Thump...Thump. I look over my cramped handwriting, and almost laugh. How stupid could I be? I’m not going insane. I’m fine. Slowly and carefully, I start to rip the pages out of notebook. There are fortyeight of them in all. Forty-eight pages where I confess the horrible truth. Forty-eight pages where I confess my unforgivable imperfection. I start to rip the pages in half, but stop. One half of my mind tells me “Stop being such an idiot. You know you are fine. Just rip the pages.” The other half whispers “Be careful. Something is wrong. You aren’t thinking straight and you are doubting yourself. It’s not right.” But it is right. Gears run wild in my mind. Why don’t I like the perfect? Nobody is hungry. Nobody is poor. Nobody is discriminated against. Everything is immaculate. Life couldn’t be better. Except that I am not perfect. I am the black sheep in a field of snow. I don’t belong here. I feel anxiety worming its way into my head. It eats at my insides, clawing its way around my stomach, my lungs. It sits in my mind, feasting on my thoughts. My legs sway a little, moving like a tree does in a harsh wind. I can feel my knees buckling below me, quickly sending my shaking body to the floor. I collapse and breathe short and fast. My lungs burn with the ferocity of a forest fire, searing my throat with its fiery embrace. Tears stream down my cheeks and onto the ground, where they sit, a horrid reminder that I am breaking down. I shake my head, trying to clear the voice tickling the back of my mind, but it stubbornly sits, waiting to be heard. The fear whispers into my ear. “You aren’t perfect. You don’t fit in. You shouldn’t be here. What are you even here for? You don’t belong here.” The voice is soft and raspy, like a purring cat. Taunting me. Laughing at me. I open my mouth wide and release the scream that’s been bottled up inside.

Karinne Robbins