Perfect--Tiffany

The sound of the morning alarm pushes me to wake up from the endless dream. 9:36 a.m flashes on my lock screen. I'm climbing out of the ruffled sheets, getting ready for the day. 10:30 a.m. Saturday, time for a jog.

"What's the weather?" I whisper.

"70 degree Fahrenheit, with a slight breeze, no rain." it speaks.

"Perfect."

Climbing down the 20 steps of stairs, each step down was indifferent from the other.  I walk smoothly to the kitchen, finding a granola bar to eat. As I unwrap the morning snack, I count 6 perfectly aligned chocolate pieces, eat the snack, quenches the morning hunger.

Let's drink, we should be thirsty by now.

I head to the fridge, grabbing the pitcher of water, pouring it into the self-made mug. I remember making the cup. We can't trust others to make it as neat as we do.

Drinking the water.

We're wearing gym clothes, no wrinkles. Let's put on our shoes. Remember, the gray one to match our shirt.

I head to the door and reach towards the black sneakers with gray rubber soles. Stop, didn't we agree to wear the gray one?

"Isn't this gray?"

Feeling dizzy, I squat down and look blankly at the rack of shoes. Reset. My eyes focus on the correct shoe, gray all the way. Perfect. I  put them on. Finished? Stand up. In 1, 2, 3. Standing, a sense of relief is rushing through my veins.

"What time is it?"

I look at my phone, 10:59 a.m.

"How is it possible? Too early, why?" sounding anxious.

Let's tie our shoes again. Look, one shoe's tighter than the other.

Crouching down, I untie the shoes and retie them once more. Done. Taking out my phone, 11:00 a.m. Perfect. I start to unlock the front door. Walking out of the building, I set the alarm to ring at 12:00 p.m.

Don't forget why we are here. What did they say to us?

" 'You are perfect, as imagined, worth the cost.' "

I walk down the stairs, getting in formation to jog. Ready, set, go. I turn right and start increasing my speed. I look forward and see a tree, shaped like the one in the movies. Green leaves, brown trunk and branches. Keep going straight. I jog pass the tree, which covers the brightness of the morning sun. I look forward again, seeing a red STOP sign. Stop in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. I stop in front of the sign. Wait for 3, 2, 1. I continue jogging as I cross the street. I look to my right: a red car stops behind the crosswalk. Only one, it does not fill the street. Don't mind it, they're not us.

“I can’t.” I stop.

What happened? Don’t stop; we didn’t count down.

            I walk towards the car. The man looks furious. I stand still in front of the car, while he  honks angrily.

            “Hey, dumba** move! Are ya asking for fight?”

A fight, we didn’t want to fight, another car must come.

            “Hey, ya listening! Get outta the way before I get outta my car!” his screams becoming louder and louder.

            I stand in silence, waiting. A perfect place must have perfect people, like me.

            “That’s it! It’s about time you got beat!” The man opens the door. He wears an oversized, stained shirt, hair uncombed. He’s not perfect.

“I give ya 7 seconds til I punch the crap out of ya”  pointing his finger at me, close enough to touch me.

He reeks alcohol and cigars.

            In his left hand, between his index finger and middle finger, he squeezes a cigar and inhales the bud, blows the smoke at my face.

We feel dirty, disgusting, un-perfect.

            “ 7, 6, 5, 4” the man starts to count down, each number down he blows in our face.

            “Ya betta move, or ya askin’ for it,” he shouts in our ear, “3, 2, 1!”

            He pulls away from our face, whispers, “0”, inhaling the bud, and exhaling the smoke.

Get away! Get lost! You don’t understand!

            “Ya gonna regret it.” he digs the end of the cigar and pressed it on our face.

IS THIS MAN CRAZY, OUR SKIN BURNED!

            “We will kill you.” we scream, fighting the disgusting man until he turns to a pulp.

            He falls on the pavement, blood running down his face, his breath shortens. We open his car door and grab the neck of the beer bottle. Typical, disgusting imperfect borne.

            “Ya gonna regret IT” we whisper, smashing the bottle on the edge of the door, creating the bottle to become a true, perfect weapon.

            “Imperfection doesn’t deserve to exist” we said to the man, as we pressed the bottle to his face. Dead.

            Our phone vibrates, 5 minutes until 12:00 p.m. We start to run back home. We run pass the perfect tree. Almost home. As we reach home, the alarm rings. NO it was supposed to ring when we are at the top of the stairs! We climb up the stairs, open the door. Did we lock the door? Scratching our head. Shower. Going to the bathroom, we open the lights, seeing someone stare back at us.

Who is that? Why is he covered in blood? His face scarred? He blinks when we blink!

Touching our face, as the man touches his. We look down, our clothes covered in blood. Why are our shoes on!

“No, that’s not me, not us, wait, no”

Imperfection doesn’t deserve to exist.

“Impossible, we, I.” I start to laugh.

“ ‘You are perfect, as imagined, worth the cost.’, did they lie? Are we a lie?” we start to hyperventilate.

            We crouch down, we run our fingers through our hair, “We aren’t lieing, are we just crazy?”

            We stand up, the man looks at us, with a stunning smile he says, “Do you think we’re crazy?”