Sometimes I forget the things I write and when I go back through the documents I'm surprised by what I find. Here is something creepy and I can't remember why I wrote it. There might have been a prompt. There might have been some real reason but all I can say is this chills me to the bone.
Word Count: 768
Perfection
By
Megan Wong
A gum wrapper for Trident mint flavored gum.
A nail file with pink plastic on the end.
A Ticonderoga #2 Pencil still sharp.
#
His smile makes her feel beautiful. It is the kind of smile that is wide enough to show two rows of white teeth, along with a lift in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. It makes her feel good, so she smiles back. He is a stranger. Some random person also waiting for the bus, but she smiles and notices that he has absentmindedly left a pencil behind one ear, like a contractor.
It reminds her that she lost one of her pencils. A touch of her own absentmindedness, when she usually has five pencils on her desk at all times. Five sharpened pencils that she keeps in a line on her desk. She is not usually lackadaisical about her work, but she has been distracted lately.
She lives on her own in a one bedroom apartment with a view of the dumpsters in the alley. She would love to live in one of those apartments by the river, even if it does flood when it rains. She would love to lead the life in romance novels with something exciting happening every moment. She would love these things, but she knows that life does not work that way.
Not for her.
The bus arrives and she gets on, choosing the first seat that is open. The man who smiled sits a few rows behind her. She still feels happy that he smiled at her. Something nice and random, something sweet to think about for the rest of her ride.
It is nice to think of strange men and convince herself that they think she is beautiful. It is nice to be beautiful in someone else’s eyes because, in her own, she is plain. She is a middle aged woman, unmarried, working at an accounting firm, with mousy hair and a jutting chin. She is no one to anybody and invisible among the many faces on the street.
These thoughts lower her spirits, but she reminds herself that the man smiled at her. The man who is still a few rows away and, if she is feeling bold, she might go and speak to him. Such a silly thought to alter her routine and bold behavior is for heroes in stories. So she sits and waits until it is her turn to get off.
The door to her apartment looks gloomy. The paint is chipped and the door knob rattles as she inserts the key. She begins to open the door when she feels a hand on her neck. It is gentle, a caress of soft skin and she turns to see the man. The man on the bus. The man who smiled. He is smiling now as he presses a mask to her face.
She stumbles, but he eases her down as she starts to succumb to whatever she is inhaling. Everything becomes dreamy like that moment before a surgery and she blinks stupidly at that wide smile, now wondering what it really means.
#
She is cold. So cold. Her eyes feel frozen shut and she is losing consciousness again. She struggles to open them, to remember. She should have turned down her air conditioning. She should have grabbed a blanket before she went to sleep. She should have…
#
He smiles. She is saved now. She is saved.
Such a beautiful representation of humanity.
He places her things: the gum wrapper, the nail file and the pencil in a drawer. Mementos of her and her life, her existence before she succumbed to mortality. But, he has saved her beauty. He has saved her from age and a slow death at the hands of the societal wheels. She is a moment in time. A frozen image of beauty.
This is his studio. He brings them all here. All of his masterpieces.
The room itself is freezing. It has to be kept that way. The different coffins of glass and technology need to be protected. Others would not understand. They would be frightened by the frozen people beneath the glass. She is the fifth of his works and he takes time to smile at each body in turn.
He is so happy that he has added this woman to his collection. Humanity through time, he would call it, if he cared to share it with others.
Perhaps one day. For now, he sits in a chair, steepling his fingers together as he watches the breath slowly stop clouding the glass.
She is, in a word, perfect.
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