imperfection

"imperfection" is the pen name, or pseudonym, that today's author has chosen for herself. She says it matches her choice to use no capitalization and unconventional grammar in today's piece. What creativity, though! This story is a romance with a twist of tragedy, yes of unrequited love -- maybe fans of Twilight will find it more "perfect" than the author feels it is!



she'd followed him into his classroom one day, even though they weren't in the same class. she was something whimsical--part human, and part something unconventional. she was something different, all right. not good, not bad, and not even anything in-between.

she had plopped down into the seat next to him, ignoring the protests of the person who was supposed to sit there, and didn't say a word.he asked, vacillatingly, if she was lost--if she was new and needed the teacher to show her where her classroom was.her chin was resting in a pen-tattoo-d hand as she stared at him, her gaze unwavering.he shifted and looked away, waiting for the teacher to come over and just take her awayawayaway.---

years later, when they were in middle school- the place of busted lockers and duct-taped binders, she asked him to the very first dance. (the most important one.)he had said no. she had been expecting it, been steeling her heart up for his most-likely answer, but she hadn't expected it to hurt this bad; it was bad to the point of her paper heart getting tiny crinkles near the edges, bad to the point of her stomach coiling and uncoiling like a snake in a trance, badbadbad."don't break," she whispered to her heart. "don'tbreakdon'tbreakdon'tbreak."

he pretended not to hear her.---for once, he was the one watching her as she did something unimportantly urgent. he stared at her pen-tatoo'd hands and her dyed hair (FAKEFAKFAKE) hair and her too-skinny (breakable) limbs, and her eyes that showed him that there was a fire in her that kept her going, rammed her through plastic dolls with plastic houses and strong winds and this ongoing (empty) world.he picked up his pencil and told himself no.---

they were running the mile. she had been the last person to finish, and when she did, she sank down into itchy blades of grass with the ants and worms and weeds and flowers, lungs rattling out like a steam engine. her barely-existant ankles looked as if they would shatter into a million pieces, but her eyes were gleaming and stronger than ever. "you have a long way to go," he told her.she looks up at him with her eyes the color of mirrors, and let out a laugh that sounded like dry leaves rustling to together in a breeze. "maybe," she said, "but at least i get to smell the roses."---

"do you think," she asks one day, out of the blue, "that maybe you could pretend that i was perfect?"he gives her one of his looks--the one that's half quizzical and half belittling--and rips her hands from his shoulders. (he watches the daisy petals fall from a naked stalk.)"i'm trying," she whispers. "i'm trying so hard, and i'm killing so many flowers, but they all say that you love me."he says nothing, and she laughs. "i guess flowers are just like pretty-faced people, then.)---a week later, she gets that dance. and for those three minutes, she can pretend that she is perfect, that flowers are actually pretty and smart, and she can feel that paper heart of hers being taped together.there's no music, and it's in the middle of nowhere but not really, just a few blocks down, under a dimming streetlight, but she doens't care. she doesn't notice that she's wearing torn jeans and a tattered shirt that's almost down to her knees, and not in a fancy dress and heels, or that he's staring at a point just beyond her head.she cries, and she tucks this little moment away into her book of memories.---

he's holding an expensive paintbrush and swirling to colors together. he's supposed to make something beautiful, something tragic.he paints her, with her mirror eyes and pen-tattoo'd hands, and her spindly limbs and that fire in her.he stares at the painting for hours before he finds his dad's lighter and sets it on fire.(burn.)she falls on the blacktop, right on the grafitti hopskotch squares. ---

"she's been malnourished," the doctor tells him. "we'll keep her on life support, and see if we can get her to gain weight."he barely nods before giving him a loose handshake. the doctor leaves, and he glares at her.(the pretty flowers always die early.)a little color drains from her lips.--the nurses whisper in hushed tones. "it's a pity," they sigh. "she would have been a beauty."he watches her knuckles turn white as her hands clench into tiny, bony fists.--

she's scheduled to die in two hours.he's giving her his last visit when he stops thinking. he grabs her and pulls her out of the bundle of tubes. she's set onto his back somewhat awkwardly, but it feels right--it feels perfect.(she would have loved to hear him say that.)and he runs.--they're at the school, and he tumbles down a hill and they land near the track-- the one where they ran the mile.she opens her eyes and sees his face, illuminated by the dim light of the sunrise. and suddenly, everything is perfect and pretty and beautiful--even the dirt on her face, and the grass stains on her hospital gown, and the worms and the weeds and the itchy blades of grass and her pen-tattoos.sunlight falls on her flower-face, and it feels like warm rain. "hello," she whispers. "hello, sun. hello, hello."