There was once a man who caught the eyes of many, but what he did with them only he would know. The man looked like the living embodiment of perfection. Anyone who had ever met the man would tell you the same, but his skeletons on the other hand would plead a different case.
If he was indeed perfect, perfection must be a man who is wealthy, kind, and only has a couple of jars of eyes. The man had many names, but only one was not a figment of his own imagination. Unfortunately, the name was something even he wouldn’t dare say aloud, so I’m afraid I don’t know it.
The man knew that everyone thought he was perfect, but he knew the truth. He was literal perfection. In his eyes there was nothing imperfect about him. He helped many of those in need, he listened to those who needed to talk, and he performed his duties to the utmost perfection.
For those reasons people would've believed his claims, but there was only one problem. The man didn’t care for others, he didn’t care what people told him, and he only performed his duties well because he had something to gain.
While I know this doesn’t sound like the perfect man, since he did it all selfishly. Nonetheless, he still did it all. He could have done other things with selfish intent, but there he was at the church. In his eyes and his fellow congregation's eyes, he was indeed perfect. Even I would dare say he was perfect, if It wasn’t for the fact I was in a prison cell for what he did.
But, was the man perfect in the eyes of man because he did everything without mistake, or was it because he appeared to fit society's standards of it? Because if it's the latter, then this man was far from perfect.
By society’s standards, this man was a monster. A monster who helped the needy, listened to the unheard, and performed his saintly duties to perfection. But if it's the former, then this man was a saint. A saint that loved the fear in his victim’s eyes, so much so that they’re kept on display for only his eyes to see. Well, I guess that was true, that was until I unintentionally stumbled upon them.
Some might say they are two sides of the same coin: perfect and imperfect, moral and immoral, holy and sinister. I can’t even begin to make heads or tails of it. The lines between something being perfect and imperfect never change, yet this man seems to blur the lines between things that should remain different.
I’ve spent endless nights trying to find an answer as to why this man was still perfect in mind, but I never found a reason why.
The man had blackmailed me, tortured me, played games with my mind, and in return I had taken the blame for his crimes. Yet, I’m here in my prison cell in the dead of night. His name had crossed my mind without a hint of hatred, only curiosity.
For some reason, the perfect man was as obsessed with me as I was him, and I know better than anyone how his obsessions end. Whatever the perfect man wanted he would receive. I just wish it wasn’t my death he wanted, but for some reason, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
After all of this you might think that I have fallen into a pit of disappear, and you are probably right. While I had failed to find an answer to my question, another more pressing one weighed heavily on my mind. A question that troubled me more than the outcome of my trial tomorrow: Why was all of this so exciting to me?
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