Oh, How Perdu

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Some people will never be whole, but how was she supposed to know that? PG.

Submitted: February 09, 2013

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Submitted: February 09, 2013

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Oh, How Perdu
Started: December 30, 2012
Finished: December 30, 2012
I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A broken, fragmented girl, maybe? - Sylvia Plath
She makes a deal with herself. If her bed is fixed accordingly, all tidy and proper, then she will be fixed. Her individual will be whole, cracked particles of her being will finally fit together like one of her many jigsaw puzzles that she never has the zeal to complete. If it is perfect, she thinks, then I will be perfect.
Satisfied with the prearrangement, she gets to work. She strips the bed nude, the cotton sateen sheets and billowy pillows carelessly thrown to the floor in a heap. She picks up the corn yellow sheet, thin and light, holding it by its crinkled edges. She puts it on the bed, resorting it several times until both sides are completely even (she thinks.) Then comes the comforter that almost drowns her in a sea of yellow that mirrors the mid-July sun that she would often curse every time she went out. It takes a little while, but she manages to put the comforter on the bed. Lastly came the pillows. She had vehemently beaten on them, combed them with her fingernails, and even blew on them for a reason that was not apparent.
She takes a step back and examines her masterpiece. Smiles that foolish girl smile that she thought made her look like a girl who had it all together. Next step: she closed her eyes, breathed in heavily, and waited for the inevitable feeling of utter completion that would fill her soul with happiness. Any minute now, it will come It is perfect, so I am perfect.
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Eight minutes. Nothing changes.
She is not unified. She is not happy. She does not feel whole. She is right back where she started. Arranging her bedset was nothing more than a short detour, a tiny vacation. She is still the same incomplete, lost person she was when she woke up this morning, and the morning before that, and the morning before that morning. What’s missing did not come running back to her, instead it ran further away. She is Not Perfect.
That is when she starts scratching her arm, scratching and scratching because her peripheral vision has been painted red, she screams inside her mind and though she can’t hear it, she thinks it’s the loudest sound she’s ever heard. She scratches and scratches and hates the world and herself, hates her own incompetent incomplete ion. I hate it, she thinks. I hate it.
She scratches and scratchesuntil she sees blood hidden under her nails, red and dark and dirty. It is blood, her blood, and she should be scared, scared that she can not muster up the energy to find herself but she can muster up the energy for inflicting self-harm upon her broken person.
But it occurs to her that she does not really care at all.


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