I went to visit my sister. She lives in a perfect house, with a perfect family, in a perfect town. Yet, something was not right. Her house was grand, covered in gild and crystal, and everyone was dressed to the nines. Perfect decor, perfect clothes, perfect taste. Yet, something was not right. Decadent cuisine filled the cupboard, and the children all behaved. Husband was always home by five and she never had to work a day. Perfect food, perfect kids, perfect husband. Yet, something was not right.

It was not the way the house smelled, for flowers filled every porcelain vase. It could not be the paint job; there was not a single dent, scratch, or chip in the place. Certainly not the family dog, since he never barked, shed, or spread mud through the house. Perfect scent, perfect paint, perfect pet.

It was the still air, as if everything was frozen in time It could be the tense fear when her husband shot them a jettatura when no one was watching. It must have been the hidden bruises covered by perfect pallets. A dark truth, a firm hand, and a tight noose.

I went to visit my sister. The maid told me of a fight, my sister running down the hall in a fright. Whispering, “I had enough,” She loved him, thought twice, but must be free. I went to find her. Her daughter told me how her mother jutted around eccentric. Dancing about sweets and carelessness, enough with being perfect. Just had to stop him, not let him know. I went to find her. My sister told me through stripped lips, “Vanity is no more,” knife tight in grip. All her skin laid in spirals on the floor. In a frenzy, in a fit, she bleeds to death, so she didn’t have to be perfect.

“Yet, I still love him,” She said futilely grabbing bandages. When she heard him coming she almost started running towards the door. Forgetting it doesn’t matter anymore. Then she remembered she lost what he loved most. He couldn’t see her, there is no fixing what she has done.

Spirals of skin painted the floor. Pleading eyes stared at me through blood. I would say she was only a shell of a person, but her insides were the only thing that was left. Perfect blade, perfect blood, perfect mutilation. Only the last glint of fear in her muscles held her bones together, but soon even that was gone, Emptiness in a scarlet puddle was my last image of her.

So, I let her die. Goodbye, perfect mother, perfect wife, perfect sister. Perfection will always win.


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.