perfect
so remember that shitpost about a hole being punched in the wall? this one? yeah, well. hmm. RIOFY yuhua is a piece of work because there's so many yuus
[warnings: internalized transphobia for a second but otherwise it's just typical yuhua self-hatred]
~
You’re not perfect.
This is a fact. One you’ve been painfully aware of for far too long.
Every single comment ever made about you has been logged in your mind, most compliments forgotten and every insult or slight retained. When you mess up, when you hear someone say something about you, it becomes an obsession. Like a single drop of dye falling into water, something that everyone else will forget about in an instant becomes a fixation that spreads through you like poison.
Every obsession in that fashion ultimately comes down to this one fact.
After all, you’re pretty weak and pathetic. Your stamina and physical strength is laughable. You’re slow on the uptake. You’re not good at making and keeping friends. You’re clumsy and butterfingered. You get anxious over stupid things easily, and you can’t look people in the eyes when you talk. You have no viable talents. You’re ugly, your proportions are all messed up, and some days you don’t want to go out because you can’t bear the thought of living with your own face. With your own body. Hell, you’re not even a guy like you claim to be.
You don’t have anything that makes you special. If you do, it’s something that makes you the circus act—the laughingstock, the one getting booed off the stage.
…So why? Why did you have to end up with… all of these other people?
Everyone is so much more unique than you. So much more vibrant. So much kinder, or dedicated, or capable, or confident, or good-looking, or talented. They’re all something, compared to your nothing. You’re all from worlds that aren’t this one, but they’re all so much more than you could ever hope to be. So much closer to “perfect.” Even the ones who are just from Earth, even the ones who are the same species as you.
It doesn’t sit quite right with you, to be lumped together with everyone else. If you had to make it an analogy more digestible for your own incoherent thoughts, it would be like putting a useless NPC with the cast of main characters.
You simply aren’t good enough to belong.
But the feeling is so strong that it overflows into your thoughts about others. It’s exhausting trying to get along with these “perfect,” “better” people. You’re bitter about being so obviously inferior and you hate the fact that you are. If you have to put up with another day of pretending to like people you don’t, you think you might just lose your mind and quit.
(You won’t. You won’t, and you know it.)
But you’re so tired of this. It would be so nice, to let loose. To be able to tell someone that you hate them. That you’re praying for their downfall. Except—that’s not quite right, and that’s not the “nice” or “situationally correct” thing to do. Besides, it won’t do anything to them. Everyone has friends and supporters, people who would choose them over you in a heartbeat.
They won’t lose anything. You will. Because they’re “perfect,” and you’re not.
The thought of it pisses you off.
What can you do about it, though? When you hold this anger in your chest, so hot it runs cold, do you really think you can let it out? Will you simply cry it out futilely, like a child? Or—
Without thinking, your body moves of its own accord. The aged wall gives way under your fist, crumpling and cracking around the edges. Classic Ramshackle dust attacks your senses as you retract your hand. The pain waits to set in, and then your knuckles sting. The joints of your fingers complain from being clenched so tightly.
Sure, it hurts. But it feels good, at least for a moment—to hurt something, to break something, because everyone else feels so untouchable and invulnerable.
And then the “moment” wears off, and you stare at the hole in the wall in horror.
You’ve fucked up.
