Beautiful Perfection

I watch as my swiftly moving hands sew up his cold stiff lips. A shimmer of light streams across his dead face, lighting the room as I brush a touch of powder on the corpse’s pale complexion. My thoughts fall upon my sleeping children and their dreams of Christmas gifts under the evergreen tree. Gazing into the eyes of my perfect creation the word “perfect” utters from my lips. I think to myself how funny it is that I can make this person look better in death then he ever did in life.

Filled with exhaustion I toss my brief case under the coffee table moving the small slab of Christmassy carpet and revealing a bit of the wooden floor. The gas fire place is still burning bringing a feeling of comfort and relief comes over me. There is no place like home. I walk over to the brightly lit holiday tree to gaze at its symbolizing glow and shape. My eyes scroll to the top to find its plastic star crooked. My arm extends as I stand on my tip toes. With my thumb and pointer I straighten the star, perfecting it. I sigh, entranced in the ornament’s glowing glory. Its illumination danced around with the fires light and entertained me for a second. I turn away as my eyes begin to water and sting, breaking me from my trance.

With incredible stealth and carefully calculated silence I sneak into the room of my children. Through the darkness I can see them both straddled across the bed with their arms and legs extending away from them on all sides. I tuck them in before pressing my lips on the fore-head of my daughter. I do not kiss my son for fear I may wake him up.

I sit upright on my pink stool located at the vanity in my room. From its drawer I draw out my best make up kit, my camera, and my pistol. You should never keep things that aren’t yours in your vanity. Divorce is such sweet sorrow. Artistically I begin painting on a new face. A face I can be proud of, the way I want everyone to remember me after I am dead and forgotten. With a flash of the camera my face is immortalized. The word perfection eludes from my tongue. I feel the barrel of the gun pressing against the back of my throat and with my tongue I can taste it. My finger pulls the trigger and from it rings an empty click, click.