by Nessa Morgan
Perfectly Flawed
Copyright 2013 Nessa Morgan
Published by Nessa Morgan at Smashwords
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with Author
Dedication
To my best friend, Erin, because she’s suffered through every story I’ve wanted to tell but never had the chance to finish. She’s suffered through inevitable cliffhangers that have never been resolved and she still wanted to read more. I love her like a sister. TWIB!
And to my mother for not saying, “Well, what are you going to do with a Creative Writing Degree? Maybe you should stick with Law.” I love you Mom!
Prologue
The dark, seemingly hollow world sucks me into its vortex almost instantly. It traps me within its icy depths and steals what remaining soul I have. I fight—I claw my way to freedom. Or try. Losing blood and hope as my fragile, struggling body—climbing—nears the hazy, clouded surface but it is almost a fruitless effort—a pointless attempt to succeed where I know, without a single doubt, that I have failed before.
Some part of me knows that I belong here, trudging along in a mindless daze, in this despondent place where things seem to die. Some part of me knows that, no matter how hard I try, I will always wind up here, in this hole of hopeless dreams and lost moments, faded memories and recycled puzzle pieces that no longer seem to fit.
But some part of me wants to fight—a tiny part that wants to bear its claws—but knows that a losing battle is all that I will face.
Forget this place and forget this world.
How long before my world, the only place that I have ever known, ever remembered, ever lived within, comes crashing down into nothing but shards and pieces? How long before I finally discover what lurks, creeps, and haunts in the shadows of this dark, shallow cavern covered in shadows. Whatever it is, I know that it’s waiting for me—for the wrong turn it knows that I’ll take.
When it finally reveals itself to me, which I know it will—will the surprise shock me?
Will it even be a surprise?
Will they even find me?
What the hell am I asking? Of course they’ll find me, the question is: How long?
How long? How long do I have? How much longer before I truly know my demons, before I truly understand them. Meet them face to face.
When do I meet them and discover their deep dark secrets, since they know all of mine? Will they look like me—scared and shaking, resembling the image I try to ignore in the mirror—or will they take on an image all their own, yet still resembling the material things that terrify me in the real world?
I’m scared to admit it, even while in deep subconscious, but these are the things I fear I’ll never know; these are also the things I hope I never gain the chance to learn.
When I feel like I may win, like my pain and struggle was worth it, I’ll know I’ve learned something useful, something important.
I can feel the morning air, cold and moist, against the soft skin of my exposed cheek, and I know that I have beaten this once again; everything changes. Suddenly, I am floating—no, sinking. The sensation of cold water surrounding me, suffocating me, shoving me beneath the crazy, wild waves of the dark abyss in this empty place. I almost let it take me because I want to give up, I don’t want to fight anymore. I almost let it overcome me and conquer me, its strength stealing me down to the rocks on the bottom, the rocks that will surely poke and prod me until I am nothing more than a useless lump of muscle and bone. Slowly, my will to fight, to swim against the strong current—because that can save me—kicks in, and I try to succeed. I try to be better than… whatever this is.
I am strong.
And it’s no longer water I’m fighting. I am climbing again.
As my hand reaches into the foggy light, muted from the clouds hovering low enough that I think of touching it, I stretch into the bright world I know I belong within, reaching for the safety of what I know. I can feel the air around me grow heavier and heavier. Gravity takes effect; it succeeds at its purpose, its reason for being, and drops me quickly and painfully back to the earth, letting me collide, with a soft, muffled thud, into the moist flesh that is dirt hidden beneath a canopy of twisting, decayed trees.
My eyes crash open, seeing the dark clouds suspended above me, hiding me from something scary and strange.
With a breath, I’m alive.
One
Another nightmare wakes me in the gray early morning. Not the one that leaves you screaming in the wee morning hours while you thrash violently about in your bed, but that one that leaves a sour taste in the back of your mouth and a heavy feeling of dread surrounding you, landing like a stone in your gut. If only I could remember them—these nightmares. If only I could remember the things that terrify me, the monsters under the bed, the creepy things that bump in the night. Something has to answer the raging questions in my head, the unanswerable questions banging around and colliding like ping-pong balls in my brain.
Sitting up, I feel the sheets sticking to my damp arms and legs. I can feel the sweat pouring down my forehead, gliding into my eyes and clouding my already-blurry vision usually aided by spectacles. My head is pounding, my brain is throbbing—the early stages of a headache working its way behind my eyes, my body’s evil way to keep me awake in the morning when I only want to fall back asleep.
I must have had some dream.
If only I could remember it—any of it—or any of the others. Some small, minute fraction of color, some insignificant blip in the radar, any sound, any word, anything would be helpful. But nothing remains in the deep dark cavern of my la la land.
My hand instinctively reaches to grasp the platinum chain around my neck, the one that holds the circular locket dangling from my neck, the locket that houses the faces of my family. One my palm, I can feel the pressure of the owl against my skin, permanently marking me for the rest of the day as I tightly squeeze the piece of jewelry. The mark will fade, it always does, but I’ll still feel it within my skin. I lift the locket to my lips, gently kissing it, before quickly releasing it from my grip and letting the locket fall against my chest where it rightfully belongs.
I’d rather be in bed, but I fight the urge. After grabbing some clothes for the day, I slowly trudge to the shower to start my usual morning routine. I stand beneath the stream of scalding hot water, letting it pound against my sensitive flesh. I can feel the top layer of skin, the thin sheen of sweat I collected through the night, washing away just like the nonexistent remains of the dream. Or nightmare. I should really use correct terms. It leaves me bare and vulnerable—exposed, if you will.
While the shower itself doesn’t make me feel clean, not completely, it does make me
feel slightly better. It makes me feel as if I can face the world in the upcoming hours with a fresh slate—a new canvas. As damaged as I am, I feel that I can accomplish anything right now.
The feeling usually fades within the hour.
After towel-drying and covering myself in cherry blossom scented body lotion, the something I do every morning, I drape the green towel over the metal bar screwed into the wall and grab my neatly folded clothes from the counter, dressing myself as I avoid the gaze of morning-me in the mirror. It’s never a pretty sight.
The weekend, sadly, is over and I start the second week—first full five-day week—of school today. It’s just another typical day—another day where I am the school freak, the junior class psycho, or any variation of the terms, or any new words that you want to add in, it all works around here.
I tug on my clothes, taking in the feel of the fabric against my steamed skin. My jeans are tight and the air hits my legs through the large frayed hole in the knee and the randomly placed frayed spots running up and down my legs. I never understood the purpose of paying for already-ruined jeans, but I bought them nonetheless just to join the trend and conform, to better blend into the masses. My white camisole against my skin; the soft worn fabric soothing as it rubs against my stomach, covering the blemishes I refuse to show the world. I quickly cover the white with a black tank top.
As I correct the fall of the clothing and smooth out any wrinkles, I check the reflection in the mirror. I don’t feel right. Not completely. But I try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling looming over me like the shadow of a tall building. I won’t feel like myself, I’ll never feel like myself. I’ve grown to accept that. I’m not even sure what myself is supposed to feel like—I just know that I won’t feel right for a long, long time. Maybe not ever. To be honest, since my aunt took me in, some part of me felt distant, some part of me felt misplaced, forgotten, and corrupted, or, for lack of a better word, dead.
Dead like my mother. Dead like my sister and brother. Dead like the people that cared for me, the people that loved me, the people that were taken—stolen—from me. Dead like I’m supposed to be.
Just dropped a bomb on you, didn’t I?
Now, there may be questions running rampant in your mind right about now. Why am I—sweet little me?—the junior class psycho, you may be wondering. Why am I the appointed freak—I think there was even a vote one day—wandering through the halls repelling those who believe themselves to be the pretty and popular, you could ask. You know, the people that wish or demand that everyone else notice them but we only pay attention because we thrive on humiliation when it eventually finds them.
Sorry, that was a bit of a tangent.
But since you asked so nicely, it’s easier to start from the beginning… or at least nine years ago.
My father decided one drab and dreary night to take the largest, sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer—the drawer that none of us kids were allowed to open because it had sharp objects—and stab my mother, the woman he supposedly loved, in the throat while she quietly slept. The woman he promised to love and cherish, for richer and poorer, for better or worse, until death do they part. He just killed her, threw her away, as if she didn’t matter. As if she never mattered.
I don’t know about anyone else, and I haven’t been married, but I don’t think the vows allow for the husband to take the matter into his own hands, even if he isn’t happy or satisfied.
It’s pathetic, really.
I’m sorry, is this too gruesome for you?
Just wait. Like everything else in my screwed up little world, it gets worse.
Then, dear old Dad walked down the hall, entered the pretty little purple bedroom, and sliced my older sister’s throat. She was ten years old, she hadn’t even seen fifth grade yet. In my sister’s hands, she still clutched her favorite Cabbage Patch doll, one that looked exactly like her because they did that back then despite how creepy it really was. Then, across the hall, he skewered my older brother in the stomach while he slept on Power Ranger sheets in a room covered in trucks. He worshipped the Power Rangers and loved toy trucks and never hurt anyone, not in his life. Neither my sister.
Why am I telling you any of this?
Because I can.
Too simple an answer for you?
Well, I actually have no idea. Not a one. I can’t remember any of it. Never could. All I know is what the police said on the news, what the newspapers printed, what my therapist told me (and I assume all of what she told me was a lie fabricated to help me heal quickly), and what my Aunt Hilary could stomach to repeat to me. That was five words, I’m sorry, but they’re dead. I looked up the trial online once—I know, not the brightest idea for the victim—but I wanted to see if I could learn something new, something the aforementioned neglected to tell me, but it was very blank, very bare on the details. I was more confused than before because I didn’t even know half of the words in the file. I was around twelve when I Googled it.
I should be dead and decomposing six feet below, spending my days with Elvis and my great Aunt Ida—maybe with my mom and brother and sister, too. The twelve stab wounds on my body agree with me and ache whenever this thought crosses my mind.
But I’m still here, breathing, rather than slowly morphing into the next generation’s new fossil fuel.
It sucks, I know—I sounded so pathetic, right there—but let’s be honest, it made me more interesting, didn’t it? It gives people a reason to talk about me even if they’re too scared to talk to me or only want to bully me. Although, what they say isn’t really that great or important, people still know who I am. The entire country, from what I can understand, knows who I am. At least, I think they do. I could be wrong about that all together. Although, no one has really said anything, done anything, to me in quite some time. A few years, actually. I still get the look, though. You know, the look that says, I’m waiting for the day you finally snap just so I can tell the surviving people, ‘I told you,’ after you’ve massacred majority of the town.
See, it’s harder to ignore the psychotic gene and crazy DNA running within me. I am the most interesting and downright intriguing girl in school even if most of my classmates ignore me.
Hey, I can say I’ve literally been stabbed in the back.
Get it? …no?
Tough crowd.
Maybe it’s a good thing that I can’t remember what happened to me and what happened to my family. Whom am I kidding; it’s freaking fantastic that I can’t remember. I can’t remember my dad, Thank God. I wouldn’t even know the man if I were to pass him on the street—which will never, ever happen. Aunt Hilary even moved us from Texas to Washington State to make things easier on me, to make growing up easier on me. She was hoping that I wouldn’t be That Girl. But a story like mine tends to follow me around. It sticks like glue to me wherever I am, no matter who I pretend to be.
Everywhere I go—the mall, school—all I hear are the usual questions. Aren’t you the daughter of the murderer? The chatty mothers ask me with fake-pity and faux-sympathy stuck on their Botox’d faces before turning to discuss my supposed scars and what they’re baking for the jazz band bake sale. Didn’t your dad, like, try to kill you or something? The chatty mothers’ gossipy daughters ask in their pursuit of the perfect juicy story before turning up their plastic, birthday present noses, flipping their chemically perfect hair, and pretending that I don’t exist so I don’t ruin their perfect view of the discount rack.
I swear, if I hear Oh, you poor thing!—in any context, whether it be genuine, pathetically sarcastic, or a way to feign interest so I divulge my secrets—one more time, I may just snap and show these people how far from the tree this apple really fell.
These are the reasons why I prefer to remain invisible.
I try, at least.
I pull my damp and drying hair over my left shoulder, completely exposing the right side of my neck, and watch the water droplets fall to the rug the color of a morning sky on a sunny day. My natural
ly dark curls are almost dry. I paint my face with the usual coat of makeup, nothing over the top and dramatic, then brush my teeth using the disgusting cinnamon toothpaste I hate but have yet to replace before leaving the bathroom.
The cold air of the hallway seeps through my clothes, my skin, chilling me to the bone. I shiver for a brief moment before my body can adjust to the normal temperature of the large house and force my bare feet to start their journey.
I walk back into my bedroom. The pale green walls of my sanctuary are covered in various posters of my favorite bands, sports teams, actors, and movies, pictures of me and friends, a calendar, a bulletin/whiteboard, and the butterflies that covered my childhood room. I like butterflies. There is a light pink accent wall and the ceiling is a pastel purple—because I was an odd thirteen year old. The colors don’t usually mix well but I still like it. The pink wall isn’t as cluttered as the rest of the room; it holds three paintings done by my closest friend and four pictures of my family. My mother’s smiling face beams at me while Ivy and Noah—my sister and brother—smile to the camera. Hilary cut my father from the picture before she gave me the picture. I saw her burning his face from all of the pictures in the fireplace, the only time that I’ve ever seen it used.
This is my cave, my safe haven, the wonderful world that I have created for myself. This is the place that says who I truly am—what I like, what I love—at least, I’d like to believe that it does. In here, no one can hurt me.
I make my bed, using hospital corners, because I’m a bit weird, and the urge to crawl back in and destroy my hard work overwhelms me. I resist, and back away, making my way to my cluttered desk to prepare my backpack, shoving all binders and pieces of homework into their respective places before zipping it up and shouldering it.
I make my way down the stairs, listening to the old wood creak beneath my steps, and drop my pack by the piano bench in the living room before turning the lock on the door, unlocking it. In the kitchen, I lower three slices of bread into the four-slot toaster, tug the butter and peanut butter from their respective places, and pour two glasses of orange juice (no pulp) and one glass of apple juice.
