She was perfect. She was everything I ever needed in a person

Perfect eyes. Perfect smile. Perfect lips. Perfect body. Perfect voice. Perfect mind. Perfect soul.

But even more than that, she was merely perfect in the way she was. In every way she was, she was perfect. In everything she did, she was perfect. And I wanted her perfection. I wanted her to be mine. I needed her to be mine.

I spent weeks, no months, planning on how she'd be mine. On how I would finally have her perfection. The once blank white walls of my bedrooms floors became a sketch board of unfinished plans and calculations and graphs. Her pictures marked where my windows once were, blocking out the sunlight with her perfection.

I planned everything. Every little detail I had written down somewhere. Everything I'd say. Everything I'd do. I quit my job. I stopped answering calls. I spent hours upon hours, days upon days, sitting in the same place, furiously sketching along my walls and closets and tables. Cupboards once filled with clothes, now filled with graph papers and scripts. I imagined how our life would be like. I imagined how her perfection would rub off on our love, and make me as perfect as she was.

It all lead to that night.

Everything I had worked on, lead me to that night.

But I must say I was disappointed as I looked down upon her unmoving body which had finally become mine, lying limp in my basement, she lacked the perfection I thought she had. I must've clasped the chains too hard around her neck. Poor thing

Poor once-perfect thing.

I suppose it's true what they say, there is no such thing as a perfect human being.