The Image of Perfection
By Tiger Dauthi
You know those ideas that suddenly pop into your head and won't go away? Yeah, this is one of those. It's more of a what if? story than anything, but it's canonical... in a sense. I've left the perspectives anonymous, because to me it makes it that much more real. It's not necessarily this canonical character, or this one, but it's a random one, and thus it speaks for all the people who view Isaac that way.
My attempt at ironies within ironies. I hope it makes you think. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!
Misunderstanding/Disconnection
Not once in my career have I been graced with perfection such as this, greater even than the beauty of our own Mt. Aleph and the Sol Sanctum.
Such a mysterious beauty lies in him, in the way he looks at everyone with kindly and occasionally condescending pale blue eyes, in the way his posture is straight and his gait perfect.
Perfect. That would be the word, the only word, to describe him.
To have had the privilege of teaching him, I am honored beyond measure.
Sometimes, I wonder about his lifestyle, what made him become such a wonderful role model. He had such a terrible accident those years ago, but even in his silence - it's a beautiful silence, not at all stifling - he commands everyone's attention.
Perhaps he is a reincarnation of God, although I find that unlikely. Actually, I do not find that unlikely; it seems very likely, but I would not wish the burden of having to look after humanity on him, not just because of his tragedy, but because lowly humans must be so tiring to him. There is simply no other way to describe him though.
With such a student as this, how could a teacher not dote on him? Indeed, although students sometimes would tell me I overindulged him, I could tell they didn’t grudge him at all – besides, he deserved it, with all the hard work he did. Leader in the group trips, top student in every single one of his classes, always helping with extracurricular work. And now, saviour of the world. He has done more in these six or seven years than some people manage to do in their lifetime.
Lately he’s been a bit aloof, and he does not seem to look or act like a role model anymore, but I know that it must be due to the heavy weight of the world on his back, so I don’t judge him as harshly as I would for others. After all, he will probably be acting normally very soon, so I doubt it matters.
He doesn’t smile anymore though.
~*~*~
Ignorance/Fear
She hates him.
Yet somehow she doesn’t. Because it’s impossible to hate someone like him, someone who’s so alive, so shining. (so perfect)
She doesn’t believe perfection is a thing that can be conceived (perfection is ephemeral), and if it can, then she doesn’t believe it can be achieved, but somehow, the only way to describe him is perfection.
That doesn’t mean she can’t hate him.
She wishes there would be something that would make him imperfect (just because he is), something that would expose him for something (a rotten, scheming rat) not so great, something that would make him normal. (like me)
She rails about him to her friends (trying to be accepted), but they just look at her oddly and ask why she is so (bitter) hateful of him – after all, he is one of them, and not an outcast (like me). When she gives half-assed reasons, they grin and laugh at her, as if they thought it was a joke (so stupid). Smiling and giggling, they tell her to go up to him and ask if he has fears.
“See, he’ll have fears. Just you wait and see. Everyone does.” (what’s yours?)
“No he won’t, he’s perfect!”
“Gorgeous.”
“Yum.”
In disgust she walks away. (so stupid)
One night she sees him, crouched in an alleyway with a bloodied knife (idiotic). Although she doesn’t really see him; all she sees is a shadow, with the moonlight glancing off the polished silver of the blade (a loser). So desperate is she for incriminating evidence though, and the shadow looks so much like him (or are you afraid that it’s you?) that she eventually convinces herself that it is him.
When she spreads the rumors though no one believes her. No matter how hard she tries, no matter how much toil she goes through, stalking him just like the petty girls (I’m not one of them) who follow him home everyday, no matter what she does (but it doesn’t work) no one believes her. (perfection is not REAL)
She hates him. (like me)
~*~*~
Catalyst/Fool
He is perfect. Unknown. Mysterious.
People say he is beautiful, and he is beautiful. They say he is brilliant, and he is. They say he is perfect, and he is.
Girls, boys, they swoon over him. Love letters, threats of suicide, spilt tears, they all belong to him.
But they don't love him, as you do. They don't know him, as you do. They don't know about his ritualistic, destroyed, dark side, the one that sits in the basement in the dark light reading dark books, doing dark things.
Scars, blood, death belongs to him.
You always wondered what they would do if they knew about that side of him. It's always astounded you as to how they so easily ignore what happened to him all those years ago; he is right, they prefer not to remember what pains them.
Or perhaps you know. Someone found out about it once, and they leaked it to everyone. And everyone dismissed it as a rumor, one of the many started about him every day. Why? Because it would be too different to think that of him, of course.
But you. You. You're different, because you know him and accept him for who he is. He lets you in on some things, lets you help with some smaller things. He knows he can trust you, and that makes you feel proud.
You love him unconditionally.
You are a nobody in the world, but he knows you, and though he never seeks you out in public - he can't ruin his perfect image - you spend afternoons and sometimes nights huddling over a silver-bound book, or gracing a knife with blood.
He seeks for you, looks for you. It makes you feel proud.
One night he comes into your bed, at your house, instead of the many other nights spent outside or at his house, performing dark deeds. You spend the night in bliss, (as well as the pleasure of pain, for that is what he and you are) and it is the first time you've seen a smile light his face up; one that isn't fake, pained, or dark, one that merely is. He doesn't seem dark to you anymore, and neither does he seem perfect, but you'd never fixated on that anyway.
In the morning you awake and find that he is gone, although you expected no less. The window is open and the curtains are fluttering. As you get up to close the window you notice a book dropped open behind your bedpost, most likely carelessly by him. After all, he is not perfect.
There is a sticky stuck on one of the pages, and shyly, curiously, almost fearfully you turn to that page.
You read about a ritual to resurrect the dead, and right there, on the third line of the page, under the heading "Components," is a child's virginity.
You love him even more after that.
Thanks for reading!
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