Fake Perfection

One woman, one paragraph, one story, one fake perfection. Can a woman hide her pain and not cry? Can a wife lock her happiness and not laugh? Can a lady shut all her emotions and not scream?

Fake Perfection

(A Short Story, by Sebastián Varas)

 

A perfectly, fake posture; a perfectly, fake expression and a perfectly, fake smile. She sat on the front seat of her luxury car, started it up and drove away. She wasn’t in a rush: no time to come back, no place to draw out. She didn’t know what she was exactly doing, she just needed to escape... to escape from her suburban house, from her family portrait, from her humdrum routine, from her fake perfection. But where to go? How to escape from one’s deep feelings and emotions? Can one leave behind body, spirt, mind and heart? No answer, no place to go. So she drove without any destination, without any company: just her and herself. She rested her eyes on the rear-view mirror and there it was: the most sorrowful gaze she had ever seen. She had seen those pale blue eyes before and those long eyelashes and winged eyebrows... Yes, she had seen all that before. But this time, she spotted something else: the soil of her cornea was not dry and it seemed a rainy-season would come soon if she didn't do anything to stop it. But she knew well that you cannot fight against Nature. And with that thought in mind, the first crystal seed fell. Her wet cheek made her realize �"among other things�" that she wasn't paying too much attention on the road, so she refocused her eyes on the route again. Path away were there some little pools of water... No! They are those damn mirages that you come across during a hot, sunny day when you're driving on the route. Though the water on the cement was fake, the water in her eyes was not. As it was swelteringly hot, she opened the window to let some air come in and play with her blond curly hair �"she had been played by many, but not by the air. So she put her head out of the window and draw a heavy puff of air into her lungs and then, slowly but lively, she expelled it out: she could finally breathe. Silence. And that annoyed her since the quiet screams the truth. Thus she turned on the stereo but nothing interesting was there: a man giving the latest news about economy (boring!), a woman giving some advice to a girl who had been cheated (thick!), a politician giving a speech on improving the situation of the poor (crook!)... A lot talked but no one could give her what she needed. She turned it off: sometimes it's better to shut brainless people than to grin and bear all their non-sense. No car could be seen on the route miles away. Perfect. The king-size sun reflected its goldenness on the bronze grass. Excellent. No birds flying on the coral sky, no animals crawling on the cracked soil. Superb. That was it... she slowed down the car speed, moved to the hard shoulder and stopped with a sudden brake. Then, she opened the door, took his feet out at once and, as if she were a proffesional fashion runway model, she walked genteelly with her back straight, her chest pushed out and her head held upright. Little by little, her ladylike appearance began to fade away as a film strip image came out into her mind: soon she remebered the day when she’d overcooked her first cake, then when she’d gone to work with different high-heels, when she’d drunk too much in her own birthday party, when she’d kissed that girl in high school... She cracked a smile, and immediately after, a grin from ear to ear. She couldn’t hold it any longer so she let it out... the loudest belly laugh she had ever heard from herself before. How perfect she had tried to be all these years and how fool she looked! Guffaws and more guffaws; and it felt so right: butterflies in her stomach, ants on her skin, flies on her feet. She held her abdomen with her left arm and fell down on her knees; while her clothes, hair, face were burried under a smoke of dust. Now she felt miserable, humiliated, reduced to a tiny, insignificant piece of this rock-made sphere. The comic film in her mind had changed into a drama: a regretful mother who'd lost one of her kids, a resigned wife who'd withstood her husband's affairs, a recherché housewife who'd been ignored in her own house, a reborn woman who’d locked all her emotions in her chest... Salted rivers emerged out from her eyes, high waterfalls fell down from her pupils, severe floods spread all over her cheeks. After every breath, she howled groans and moans as steel thorns pressed down her fist-sized rose. The dry-season was over, in the cracks of the soil ran tearful currents of water; in the peaceful air echoed loudly weepings of pain. After a while, she raised her head, her gaze fixed on the horizon; stood her ground, her feet firm on the floor; and walked a few meters away from the route. Her arms opened, her hands opened, her mouth opened and so it was, she yelled because she was a fragile lamb, a frightened puppy, a fierce lioness, a free mockingbird. She kept on shouting as her feelings broke out from an inner prison. Cries of repressed anger, of compressed pain, of interrupted terror; all of them set free at the same time. Just then, she heard a far-off sound and a car was sighted in the distance. She moved towards her own car, shook off her skirt and shirt, fixed her hair, cleaned up her face and got over it with dignity. A perfectly, fake posture; a perfectly, fake expression and a perfectly, fake smile. She sat on the front seat of her luxury car, started it up and drove...

Author's Note

As I'm not a native English speaker and this is my first short story, I'd like to receive any kind of feedback. I only hope that you enjoy reading my story and feel identified at least with a word.