“You have too much,” Belle Saunders sang quietly under her breath, covering the cord to her earphones with her long, brown hair. “You’re spending all your time collecting and discovering…” She tapped her pale finger against her ultra-tight skinny jeans. “It’s not enough, and no matter how much you try…”

“How about you, Belle?” Mrs. Jennings coaxed enthusiastically, always the sickening optimist.

…you’ll never find the one you want.

Belle quietly pressed the pause button and stared at the slightly obese woman, trying not to be too critical. But, god! Her hair was so disgusting—dry, damaged tips and horrendously greasy roots. And she had an immense zit on her forehead that she seemed to be ‘hiding’ with her too-long, fried bangs, and she had lipstick on her slightly yellowed, crooked teeth, and her lips were obviously chapped, and she was way too chubby to be wearing that V-neck shirt. Her fingernails were not only too stubby and short, but painted with a hideous, chipped orange colour, and, oh god, she had forgotten to straighten a giant chunk of frizz on the left side of her head, so her right ear stuck out like a monkey’s but the left one was totally obscured by what appeared to be a rather large bird’s nest. Belle simply couldn’t fathom how this woman—one who might be pretty, or at least decent, with a nice chemical straightening and dye-job, some exercise, braces, a tooth brush, a bit of wonderfully-applied makeup, a hairbrush, and some flattering clothes—could let herself look so… so… odious. She pursed her own lightly glossed, moist lips and gently rested her chin in the palm of her sanitized, moisturized hand.

“What about me, Mrs. Jennings?” The immaculate girl asked primly.

“Well, Belle—” a chuckle “—how are you feeling today?” I was fine. But now, I feel infected. You are disgusting. This room is disgusting. The people in it are disgusting, especially that boy with the greasy hair and the runny nose—he better stay away from me. This chair is disgusting and grimy. I need a shower.

“I’m doing quite well, thank you. How have you been doing?”

“Wonderfully, Belle! Now, have you been sleeping well?” No. Mrs. Jennings grinned obliviously. Belle gave a subdued, fake smile in return.

“Yes, Mrs. Jennings.”

“And… eating? Have you been eating well?” Belle forced herself not to shift in her seat. She blinked twice, rapidly, but made eye contact with the repulsive woman. Warm, brown eyes met her own blue-green ones. Nice eyes. Belle would have to make a point to look at only those from now on—maybe that’s why she makes herself so untidy and hideous! To force us into making eye contact!

“Yes, Mrs. Jennings. I had an apple for breakfast and spaghetti last night.”

“That’s wonderful, Belle!” Mrs. Jennings cooed. Lie. It wasn’t at all wonderful. Belle had wanted to vomit after consuming them, especially the slimy spaghetti. The only thing that stopped her was her intense fear of vomit and her knowledge of how unsightly it would have been to throw up—she shuddered at the mere thought.

“We’re all very proud of how well you’ve been doing, Belle.” Belle didn’t really care how proud they all effusively claimed to be of her so-called quick recovery. She had never had it that bad, anyway—she had just been imperfect. But if anything craved—needed—perfection, it was Belle Saunders.

Her dark grey skinny jeans had no wrinkles. Her plain white tank top was immaculate. Each strand of her wavy, dark hair was placed with extreme caution, giving it a deliberately messy look (but never, never, never a bed head-messy look). Her pale, matte skin had no blemishes. Belle carefully outlined her eyes with black eyeliner every morning, drawing a slight upward curve in each out corner to lend a slightly exotic look to her big eyes. She delicately applied a thin layer of silvery eye shadow to her eyelids. Her colourless lip gloss served only to add a shimmer and plumpness to her lips. She carefully made sure that there was not a millimeter of extra fat on her body. She washed and moisturized her hands every chance she could. She never touched anything that might possibly harbor germs unless her life—or her appearance—depended on it. everything she owned was organized into extremely distinct groups. She never acted out on whatever violent impulses she might’ve had.

Yes. Belle Saunders was perfect.

Just not perfect enough.