Perfection Kills

The powder covered her skin that was so brutally damaged, leaving her with a flawless new face that would never rightfully be hers. The layers and layers of mascara weighed down her eyelids, but she kept them wide and open, listening to everyone as they spoke and never showing boredom. The lipstick stained her lips, a pretty color that covered all the bruises on her lips. She looked simple yet normal, elegant yet classy. Weighing her earlobes down with her large hoop earrings—made of pure gold. Oh, how they wished they could be her. She was so pretty and nice, so thoughtful and smart. But that’s the thing, she wasn’t.

She did this and that, and this and that. Everything was for the sake of others—for the sake of society. She could have been a CEO, got a job at a high paying company, or even a model. But, she couldn’t—she couldn’t take away the jobs of other members in society, she couldn’t be the best. Oh yes, she definitely had the potential, no doubt about it. It was the others who had pushed her down.

When she was younger, they were jealous. That such a small, thin little girl could be so perfect. They gave her the bruises, the messed up skin, she was not herself anymore. How she would cry herself to sleep and sometimes pain herself as the other children did to her. How I would like to die, how I would like to die tonight. A peaceful death no one will be aware of until the next morning. Better yet, never.

She had these thoughts over and over until she strained further away from herself and became what they wanted her to be. Did she mind, of course! Wouldn’t we all like to be perfect as she was? But, that was just the thing, she wore her perfection as a burden. She never stood up for herself, never even cared about herself. Those greedy little monsters made her this way, but she didn’t know that.

She never cried any longer, as the day they kicked her and teased her—she was wincing in pain on the cold, hard ground. They told her to get up, she tried, but she couldn’t move. She tried to tell them, but no words came out. So, she laid there so perfectly still while looking at the same very place, until her eyes gave out. The teacher came out and asked what was wrong.

The other children said that they had just gotten there (liars). The teacher felt the girl’s pulse. Not a single beat, she scooped the girl up and called the nearest hospital—telling them to hurry. She called the girl’s parents, no one picked up. She looked at the list of relatives as the girl lay in the nurse’s office. Not a single one. The teacher found that strange, thinking back to how the girl’s parents never attended a single conference.

She had never seen any of the girl’s family members and wondered if the reason was due to them being workaholics. She kept wondering in the hospital as she held the girl’s hand—her cold, frozen hand. That’s when she noticed the bruises. The bruises covered her face and body. The teacher gasped and squeezed the girl’s hand tighter, in a way that comforted both herself and the girl.

The girl was so young—she wondered why she had never seemed to notice them before. A tear ran down the teacher’s aged skin. “Teacher, don’t cry, it will all be ok.” The teacher looked down, but it was just a figment of her imagination.

She thought back to the day when she had been sitting at her desk—crying. She thought everyone was far gone, but she heard a small, sweet, little voice over all of her loud snuffling. “Teacher, don’t cry, it will all be ok,” the girl had said. The teacher dried her eyes and looked up at the girl. There was life in her eyes, yet caringness. The girl had talked to her and calmed her down. Funny, she had felt like the student that day and it was as if the girl was her teacher.

The girl seemed to know much about loss and sadness, but she still walked around happy, her head held up high. The teacher had asked her if her parents would be worried that she was not home yet. The girl just smiled up at her and replied,”They’ll understand, I was helping someone in need.” The teacher started to smile too and then asked if she needed a ride home. The girl just shook her head and said that she loved to be outdoors, it calmed her. She was such a young little girl, yet she seemed so wise--like she had all of the answers.

Holding the girl’s hand, she called the school. The teacher asked for the girl’s emergency contact's, address, and parent’s names. The teacher let out a sigh as she waited for the girl’s parents to pick up the phone. No answer, so the teacher asked if anyone from the school could go to the girl’s address and see if her parents were home.

As she waited, she looked down at the girl’s beautiful face, covered in thick bruises. The teacher wondered if the girl’s parents were abusive. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and not just from the girl’s chilled hand. As she thought of what the most possible outcome could be, she remembered.

The teacher remembered that when the girl left that one day, she had forgotten her book. The teacher only noticed this after the girl was miles away. As she sat at her desk, she looked across the room and saw a small, pocket sized notebook covered in black leather. At first, the teacher hadn’t realized that the book was the girl’s. The teacher walked over to the desk and picked the book up.

Flipping to the first page, she saw not the girl’s math homework but a drawing. The teacher’s first thought was I wonder who drew this? But as she started to look closer at the image, she thought to herself what troubled child would draw such an image? The image was dark and brooding, and not at all like the happy, 11-year-old girl that she had just talked to.

The teacher turned the page and saw some writing. The writing was not the girl’s history assignment, but a poem. The teacher was curious, what did the poem say? The poem was sad and made the teacher cry, It was no doubt about the girl. She flipped through almost one hundred pages of scary images and depressing, suicidal poems. The teacher cried and cried as she thought of the girl—of how she held her head up high. How the girl rarely spoke, but when she did, she said something exquisite. Her appearance and homework were no worse than exquisite as well.

She had laid out an image for everyone else, for what? Was she just shy, or did she not want to trouble any of the other children? The teacher couldn’t continue to look at the pictures or read the poems any longer, she stuffed the book inside her purse and then drove home. The teacher had wanted to give the girl back her book, she had intended to. But she had no clue how she would go about it. She wanted the girl to trust her, and to gain the girl’s trust, she could never let the girl know that she had read her journal.

At the thought of the memory, the teacher felt her purse and while still holding the girl’s hand tightly,looked through her bag for the journal. She finally found it and set it down by the hospital bed. The girl’s hand was starting to get warmer from the teacher holding it. She was such a beautiful, young girl, but with such a troubled mind. The peaceful beeps of the heart monitor started to increase.

The teacher grabbed the girl’s journal just before doctors and nurses ran into the room separating both her and the girl’s intertwined hands. As she sat in the waiting room, she noticed that no one was in there. Such a wonderful girl like her ought to have some friends. The teacher thought to herself that maybe that was why the girl was so troubled. She had no one to talk to. The teacher looked for some sort of explanation as to what happened in the journal. She looked through the journal for the last entry and thought to herself, "What an odd journal, the girl talks about what happened through pictures and poems." As she got closer and closer to the page, she saw a place marker.

The photograph was of a lovely, happy looking couple holding an even happier looking baby. As soon as she looked at the baby, she realized it was the girl. She smiled at the picture thinking that the girl did have a family. Taking the photo out of the book, she flipped it over. The teacher noticed messy, black handwriting on the back, a bit smeared from what smelled like salt water. Tears, the teacher thought to herself. Straining to read the handwriting, the teacher finally made it out to say, “Eliza, thought you might want to have this. Your parents gave it to me when you were just a toddler—Lily.”

The teacher carefully put the photograph back and turned the page. Right before she saw the next picture, “Um, excuse me, ma'am?” She jumped, then turned around sluggishly.

“Yes,” the teacher replied. She turned to see a young boy from her class standing behind her. He looked at her worryingly and blushed.

“Is Elle going to be alright?” the boy mused. The teacher smiled at him as she thought to herself that maybe the girl did have some friends.

“I’m not sure, Roger.” The teacher had remembered his name from somewhere, but where—she did not know.

“Roger,” she continued. “How well do you know Eliza?”

Roger finally looked at the teacher.”She used to be my neighbor until…” Roger trailed off.

“Until what, dear,” the teacher looked at Roger questioningly.

Roger looked as though he didn’t really want to say. “Until last year.”

They both sat in silence until the teacher finally spoke. “Do you know anyone named Lily?”

Roger looked at her strangely again, “My mother.”

The teacher took in this information as she brought the photograph back out. The teacher held the photograph in her hand, careful not to dent it.

“Have you seen this picture before?” the teacher asked tentatively.

Roger barely glanced at the picture. "Of course.”

The teacher nodded and she turned to the next page in the journal. Studying the next photo, like she had the first. Eliza was in the photo again. She looked about 8-years-old. Eliza and her two parents stood facing the camera with big smiles on their faces. She turned to the back of the photograph again, and studied the writing. The writing on this photograph was much neater and read, "The last photo we ever took together. You left me and then died three days later.”

The handwriting was even blurrier on this photograph, as it was stained with more saltwater tears.

So, I guess she doesn’t have a family after all. Who does she live with then? Maybe that’s why no one picked up. The teacher showed the photo to Roger. "Have you seen this one?”

Roger looked at the photo with a sad smile on his little face. “I’ve seen them all, Miss.”

The teacher was about to ask Roger if he knew where the girl lived, when a nurse ran over to the two of them. Roger and the teacher looked at each other and then stood up hurriedly.

“What’s wrong?” the teacher asked.

The nurse explained to them that they could heal the girl completely if they could get her a heart transplant.