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The best version of yourself was perfect in every way that you could possibly be. After all, to be perfect meant to be flawless. It meant to be desirable. It meant that you would be loved.
There wouldn’t be any cracks in that pearly white smile of yours, teeth perfectly straight and bleached, no little wrinkles at the corner of your mouth that showed how you were really feeling. Your hair would be styled, each strand set in its place. Your clothes would look freshly pressed and fit well.
Because to look perfect meant to be perfect. It didn’t matter what terrible things you felt inside as long as you kept up the illusion that everything was perfectly held together. No one needed to see the tape, staples and glue that you used to constantly repair the broken parts of you. No one needed to see the parts of yourself where you gave up, a gaping hole left that you were too lazy and too tired and much too hopeless to fix.
If you were perfect you could get away with all the ugly things that you felt, those terrible, terrible thoughts and emotions that slipped through the cracks and gaps of your crumbling veneer, leaving rot in its wake.
Because it was so easy to brush off these feelings when everyone told you that you didn’t need to feel that way. Everything happened for a reason. Your life was good. You had it all. You should be grateful.
It was easy for their optimism to make these things retreat, to force them to crawl back into whatever dark parts of your heart they came from but they slotted guilt and shame into these spaces instead.
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“Nah, you’re not doing alright,” Jason said definitively, arms crossed and ready to argue that fact with you. He leaned against the kitchen counter of the Manor, a rare time for it to be completely empty aside from you two.
You paused for a moment, letting the ice clank into the glass sharply before looking at him, head slightly tilted with a confused smile on your face.
“Whatever do you mean?” You asked, careful to control the way your lips moved, threatening to pull your facade down and drag it with your wrinkles if the corners of your mouth twitched.
He pushed up from his perch, taking six long strides to reach you, his footfalls purposefully loud to let you know that you couldn’t escape him. By this time you had already poured your drinks and readied your knife to cut two slices of cake.
Jason leaned down and spoke lowly into your ear. “I said that you’re full of shit. You’re not alright and you most definitely are not fine. I don’t know why you keep trying to pretend with me.”
You straightened your back and tried to show that you had a spine to prove to Jason that he was wrong. He only laughed behind you, using his rough to turn to your face to its side so that you could look at him.
“What? Can’t look me in the eyes and tell me that I’m wrong? Can’t even act like you normally do because you know that I’m right?”
If it wasn’t the hand that held your face, slowly moving down to grip your chin with his thumb and index finger, it was Jason’s gaze that kept you in place. It was as if he saw all the rot within you and you wanted to do nothing more than return to the earth.
You faltered under his gaze, his eyes like ice showing your reflection back to you. You were so ugly and small and spineless and flawed. Jason could see it all.
At first you thought he was like you. He seemed to be outside of the family, seemed to feel differently from them too. When you met him, you thought that you could show him the ugly parts of you but as you hesitated and tried to find the right time to show him, you realized how wrong you were.
Unlike you, Jason didn’t hold on to the image that he thought they would like. He didn’t spend all his time practicing to be what someone else wanted.
Jason wasn’t like you. He was like everyone else. He could be himself and still be loved.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Your teeth were showing and they weren’t as bright as your smile led people to believe. The enamel was stained with insults and threats that you held on your tongue. If Jason looked closer, he would have seen that your teeth were even crooked a bit from all the lies that went through them.
He laughed. “So you fucked up. Lost your little title of ‘perfect.’ Think the old man might look at you a bit different? Or is it your own standards that you’re holding yourself to?”
He looked into your eyes to see which one it was. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t meet them.”
Jason tugged at and then ripped the holes in your perfect image. He peered at what was inside and saw the truth you held in it. If you weren’t perfect you wouldn’t be acknowledged and you wouldn’t be loved.
Different emotions crossed your face in the span of seconds, each one taking their turn to surface after being kept in the dark for God knows how long. Your lips trembled, undecided if it should move with sadness or anger.
Overwhelmed by the loss of control over yourself, the cake cutter slipped out of your hand, threatening to fall to the ground with a metallic clunk. Jason, still behind you, caught it, setting it gently on the counter.
“Careful,” he cooed, checking your hands with his own and turning them over to check for any cuts. “You might hurt yourself.”
You clicked your tongue at the irony. You’ve held much sharper things that could cut through flesh smoothly. The cake cutter had rounded edges. It was a tool. It couldn’t hurt anyone.
But a knife was a knife and it could still cut and stab if wielded with intention. It was like that mental knife you used to threaten yourself with expectations you didn’t need, its dull edge not sharp enough to slit your throat, but its blade held enough pressure to press against your carotid, reminding you that you needed to comply if you wanted to live.
You had to appear flawless to be loved.
You sliced into the cake, its frosting creasing under the pressure, dragging colorful little sprinkles down with it. It looked like the perfect slice but you knew it tasted like shit.
Jason was right to think of that harmless little cake cutter as a weapon.
You cut another slice, plated them both with a fork and a napkin and set them aside next to the drinks. After doing so, you took a breath and turned to Jason, who was a step back from where he was, as if he was anticipating this sort of reaction.
“Do you like to see me like this?” You asked, your voice rising with each word. “Have you been waiting for the moment that I crack? Do you want to laugh and rub my rotten self into the ground?”
There was anger in each syllable and accusation. It did well to cover up the insecurity in-between each word's spaces.
Some were afraid of these primal emotions and refused to accept them within themselves, thinking it made them lesser. These were the feelings that were seen as sins after all. Society told you that if you felt these things then you were flawed and you were wrong.
You weren’t ready for Jason’s half-step into your space again or his confident ‘yes’ to all of the above. He wasn’t afraid of your teeth and he most definitely wasn’t afraid of your bite, leaning into it. You felt your back pressed against the countertop as he locked you in place, palms flat against its surface and arms on either side of you.
“I wanna watch you crack and help you pick up the pieces. Instead of sweeping them under the rug or pushing them into some dusty corner, I want you to turn the broken parts of yourself into a mosaic.”
He leaned down, his dark curls falling across his forehead with the motion, nearly curtaining off his pale blue eyes. His lips were close enough to feel his breath, a sharp coolness of spearmint fanning you.
“I wanna push your rotten little soul into the ground and bury it deep within the earth. I want you to sit with your darkness and dwell on it. Not too long though. I want you to feel the sun. When you claw your way out of your tomb, I want you to realize that you haven’t been buried. I want you to bloom.”
Was it with love or was it with kindness that Jason spoke to you? You felt your heart skip a beat at his words, chin tilting up to meet him a little closer but the moment was already gone, only his words left to ring between your ears.
With both plates of cake in his hands, he pointed with his chin towards the dinner table, waiting for you to follow him. You grabbed the drinks to help him out.
Jason took a bite of his slice, mouth still full as he spoke to you. “You’re quiet,” he commented, gulping down and following it with something cold to wash down the sweetness.
“Must be over analyzing and overthinking what I said. Let me put it plainly for you.”
You watched as Jason wagged his frosting-laden fork in your direction, making sure you understood that his next words were for you.
“Your imperfections. Your ugly little feelings. All the things that make you feel sad and broken. Someone will accept them. You will be loved. Completely and wholly as you are.”
You blinked back at him before those rarely seen lines showed up around your mouth as you smiled, half-believing -much better than completely disregarding- what he told you as you thanked him.
You finished your cake in silence, hoping that one day you could have another quiet moment like this with Jason. Next time you’d set the table with flowers.