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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story about somewhat of a psycho.

Submitted: July 10, 2014

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Submitted: July 10, 2014



They say someone is always going to be prettier, skinnier, smarter and wiser than you. Which is true. Although the sadistic problem with perfection is that I want it. Whatever ‘perfection’ is. I crave it. The idea of someone being flawlessly seamless makes my heart pound and my tendons flare with fire – it’s a drug that I can never smoke, snort or digest. One cannot achieve perfection naturally; therefor one can never be perfect.

If I cannot be perfect, I shall just have to own perfection.

Ever since I was young I had my pens ordered in a gradient and my books stacked in size. My shoes placed in style and my toys boxed by brand. More recently my lip-gloss and lipsticks separated and my room spotlessly clean. My handwriting must be neat, my calculations must be correct and my hair must not ever be greasy. A hair out of place is another imperfection.

I had never seen true perfection until that fateful night at dusk.

He was tall and skinny. Beautiful. The friendly neighbourhood streetlamp lit his etched features professionally. His jawline was sharper than my pocket knife, his dimples were deeper than one of my garden holes and his eyes shone brighter than a glimmer of rosy blood. His smile could lift my mood more than my medication. He walked melodically, with a skip to his step and a clearness of direction.  He leant back slowly, his spine curving like a whip. His skin was smoother than my blade and his hair was strikingly perfect. He was a weapon of mass destruction.

Indeed this boy was perfect.

I got to know the boy through extensive detailed research that caused me to fall deeper and deeper in love with his flawlessness. He was merely seventeen and had no siblings. His parents had a perfect marriage and brought him up perfectly. He intrigued me. I had finally found what I was hunting for. Although - I was to find out the truth soon enough.

He was not perfect, in fact he was imperfect.

Firstly his name wasn’t perfect, neither was his handwriting. His letters to his grandmother were poorly executed and not as personal as they should’ve been. He had terrible grammar and unfathomably gruesome spelling. He was rather a let-down. I knew how to make him seamless. I knew what I had to do.

So I killed the imperfect boy, perfectly.

© Copyright 2019 Octavia Knight. All rights reserved.

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