[original] In Pursuit of Perfection
Title: In Pursuit of Perfection
Author: Luna (dreamweavernyx )
Summary: Perfection isn't always a bed of roses.
Notes: Inspired by Perfect (Hedley).
~
The door is closed with a terrifying slam.
She pauses, frozen like an ice sculpture until the footsteps fade away, before sinking to her knees.
Her features are carefully schooled into a mask of indifference, but slowly, the pieces of the stone façade chip away, as she succumbs gratefully to the much-needed quiet solitude.
In her white-knuckled hand she clutches the thick book of scores, now with some pages bent after being hurled to the floor with ferocity.
Gently, she sets it down on the floor, and with a shaking, pale hand, begins to slowly flip the battered pages.
Her searching fingers pause slightly at the third song in the book, and slowly trace over the title in large block letters. As the fingers begin to trail over the lines of tiny notes interspersed with messy pencil markings, she winces every time she goes over a recurring mistake on the score.
“Mistakes,” ring the words that had been spat in her face just minutes ago, “are for the useless. Surely we’ve raised you to be more than a useless piece of trash.”
Her fists clench, and she flips the book shut abruptly. Standing up, she clutches the book to her chest, the violent action causing a single sheet of paper wedged between the pages to flutter silently to the cold floor.
Piano Examination
Grade 8
Merit
The stark black words stare right at her, glaringly, painfully obvious against the creamy white paper of the certificate. She grimaces, and turns away from the mocking reminder of her failure.
One mark away from distinction, she thinks. Like losing the gold medal in a race by one millisecond.
She knows it’s a waste. She knows all too well, especially after it’s been thrust in her face many times before.
Lashing out with a foot, she kicks the thick sheet of paper away, out of her field of vision, and stalks to the other side of the room. She leans her cheek against the cool glass, eyebrows knitted together in frustration, shoulders still slightly trembling.
The accusations still ring in her head, a shriek echoing again and again across a thousand mountain valleys.
They think they know everything.
It’s ironic, that only the ones who have never learnt an instrument in their lives accuse her of not being good enough at her own instrument.
They think they understand.
She sinks onto the soft leather of the piano stool, and stares at the closed cover of the keyboard for a while.
How many years have her fingers danced across the ebony and ivory keys of this keyboard? She cannot recall the first time she played a piano, but she knows it’s been very long since she sat down on the stool for the first time.
More than anyone, she knows that she herself should be able to understand her own skill level and playing. And yet, they speak as if they have gone through what she has, have experienced the despair and fear of fingers crashing in the middle of a song, as if they have known the effort that goes behind the playing of every song, as if they have felt the overwhelming triumph of a piece well-played.
The truth is, they don’t understand at all.
She knows they only care about her doing well. Not just in her music, but in every aspect possible. As long as she does well enough to get a high-flying job and get paid copious amounts of money so that they can enjoy their retirement in luxury, they don’t care about how she suffers, physically, mentally, emotionally.
They don’t know anything.
Sometimes, she thinks that her parents should just get a robot to replace her instead. A robot with the fingers of Mozart, the brains of Einstein, the poise of a queen, and perhaps the wealth of Bill Gates. A robot who can fulfill their every request and whim and do it perfectly.
But she’s not a robot.
She’s a human, with burdens too heavy for her to bear alone.
They think that it’s easy to be me.
Yet, every time she opens her mouth to ask for lightening of that burden, she is regaled with stories about the ‘good old times’ when supposedly they themselves had to bear burdens heavier than hers.
She could easily bet ten years’ worth of savings that their parents were never as tyrannical as they are.
In reality, it’s not easy at all. It’s not easy to be Me.
She thinks they need to stop looking at the past, and focus their eyes on the present.
The present in which she is struggling to cope, doing her best to juggle her exam studies and her music studies, while simultaneously trying to control the household when both parents are out at work, and trying to be an exemplary model daughter.
The present that they refuse to acknowledge, perhaps. Refusing to accept her imminent collapse in their pursuit of utmost perfection.
Perfect daughter. Perfect student. Perfect musician. Perfect housekeeper.
Most of the time, she just feels like cracking under the perfection she must live up to. Sometimes, she just wonders if descent into insanity may be better than the torture of perfection.
I’m not perfect, but I keep trying.
She knows that no human is perfect. Everybody has a flaw somewhere, whether they wish to admit it or not.
So why?
Why won’t they see that she’s already doing her best, that achieving overall perfection is as impossible as trying to build a tower with cracked bricks?
In her heart, she knows that she’s already doing the best she can, trying to please them with all that she has.
So why? Why can’t you believe in me?
She draws her knees to her chest, and heaves a shuddering breath as she glances mournfully at the old piano.
Slowly, she reaches out a white hand and gently pushes open the glossy cover. The smooth polishes keys smile up at her, begging for her to place her fingers on the keyboard and play dreamy melodies.
She doesn’t rest her hands on the keys.
Instead, she just looks at the keyboard, thoughts and emotions wrecking havoc in her head.
She only notices she’s crying when the tenth tear rolls down her cheek to land on an ivory key with a soft plop, resting there like a rejected, imperfect diamond.
Only then does she give in and allow herself to let go, burying her head in her knees and shaking as her heart and soul finally cave in under fifteen years’ worth of unreachable expectations and emotional injury.
~
The next day, they push open her room door to see certificate and scores scattered all over the floor as if a hurricane had torn through the room.
The grand piano by the window is still open, one last tear resting on the keys, yet to disappear.
The window is open, and the wind blows in gently, ruffling the curtains and shifting the sheets of paper on the floor.
She isn’t there.
A single strip of paper wedged between the keys is the only sign that someone was there recently.
I need time and space to sort myself out, it reads.
So, I’m going to find a place where I am appreciated for who I am, not who I’m forced to become.
I’m going to find a place where my decisions are my own, and not the whims of somebody else.
I’m going to find a place where I am treated like a fellow human being, and not an unbreakable, emotionless marionette.
A place where perfection is an option, and not a mandatory mould I must fill.
A place where I…
…can be Me.