Creepypasta #647: Perfectionist
What does the word āperfectā mean to you?
To most people, it is an abstraction. The dream of a perfect house, perfect car, perfect family is a tempting but ultimately empty fantasy. Because perfection, of course, does not exist.
Well, not for you, it doesnāt.
Since I was a child, Iāve been what some people would call a perfectionist. I would simply call myself perfect. In fact, I canāt remember a time when I wasnāt perfect. I got straight Aās, my clothing was meticulously coordinated and cleaned, my nails were precise, pale little shells coating my pure, white fingers. My hair was always perfectly straight, perfectly cut, perfectly symmetrical.
Of course, there were times I made mistakes, like anyone else. I once got an A- on a math assignment in fourth grade (math never really was my strong suit). I studied for hours that night, tears streaming out of my eyes, rejecting food, sleep, everything that I only deserved if I was perfect. On the next assignment I received a perfect score. In this way, the problem of my imperfection was addressed and eradicated.
Perfection is very real to me.
I suppose my perfectionism makes me difficult to deal with. My parents never understood why I couldnāt relax as a child. It was difficult making and keeping friends. I almost never went out. In social situations, thereās just so much room forā¦ imperfection.
Until, of course, I met my husband.
Jack is really an amazing man. Heās anything but perfect, of course. I donāt expect perfect from anyone other than me. It wouldnāt be fair to expect everyone to live the way I do. And Jack, he was the only person to ever understand my perfectionism.Ā
When I was up late at night, writing and rewriting my thesis, shaking from exhaustion and hunger, he didnāt admonish me. He brought me coffee and sat with me, attending to my every need so I could finish my work perfectly. And when I received a B on a project in college, he walked in on me dragging my nails down my arm, drawing out the imperfection in my own blood, and he held me until the bleeding stopped.
And for the first time, someone was perfect to me, despite being riddled with imperfections.
Once we were married, I had a companion through all of my darkest hours, all of the hours that I had to fight through to maintain my perfection. It was a mix of heaven and hell, and for the first time in my life, I was happy.
Oh, my son? I would never expect him to grow up to be like me. I adored him from the moment the positive pregnancy test told me he was growing inside me. He had my eyes and Jackās mouth. He would spend hours grasping after my fingers. He always seemed to be laughing.
And for a while, life was perfect.
But there was something I couldnāt foresee.
Each time I looked down at tiny baby Alan, his eyes stared back at me, and I sawā¦ myself. I saw little me, staring up at the world in all her warped desires and need for perfection.
When Alan put on his shoes wrong, I twitched. Imperfect.
When Alan fell off his swing and scuffed one knee but not the other, I trembled. Imperfect.
When Alan struggled to correctly pronounce his own name, I shuddered. Imperfect.
I was in him. And because he was imperfect, so was I.
And now I sit sobbing into my blood-drenched hands, my sonās perfectly decorated room awash with a sea of red. Iāll have to take care of it before Jack gets home. But Iām sure heāll understand, he always has. I feel my own hatred growing inside of me, and one thought repeats over and over in my head:
Iāll do better next time.
Credits to: sleepyhollow_101
snowghoul
stormborns
blakekathryn
2087
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
