Perfection

"What is perfection? Perfection is something without flaw. Is there really an object, or being; that is truly perfect? Has it achieved perfection, in means we cannot comprehend, or even see? Does true beauty even exist? 

''And if perfection does exist, at this current time, how can we say for sure; that it is perfect? Because perfection is a matter of opinion. We cannot judge something and have no other man oppose that statement. We are blinded by our own thought. We will never experience perfection.'' "

I brushed the dusty page and slid it into my jacket's pocket. Finding this old note in the middle of the road completely threw me off. Other than being correct in some way, it was also unexpected. Walking back home, the only thing I thought of was "Who wrote this, and why?".

I tried typing the whole script online, only to find that there weren't any results, which means that this was completely original.

I quickly got tired of digging and trying to look into the note. I just shrugged it off as an edgy, repetitive poem that somehow managed to find it's way in the middle of the road. One thing I did notice was the back of the note was stained with dark black ink, or something similar to that. I put the note behind my monitor and booted my computer up.

I decided to tell my friends online about my recent "discovery". They didn't mind it, but they were unsettled and discomforted as well. We just started our Roblox clients, and quickly forgot about the script.

I woke up with a burning pain in my eyes, and I could hardly get off my bed. I washed my face and the pain disappeared, along with the numbness in my limbs. Today was a weekend, so I started my Roblox client again. I was careless. What I faced in front of me, in front of my eyes and the light coming from the screen.

The two paragraphs that filled my mind with dread. It covered the entire website. I couldn't get it off. My mouse didn't respond whenever I tried clicking Close or Minimize. The page was just those two paragraphs, repeating over and over again. Every other page redirected to the same thing. I shut my computer down and lied down.

I heard rumors around the neighborhood. The note wasn't the only copy. People started to disappear. They speculated that, if any were to view the document, be it through physical or digital, their fate will soon meet them, and the line that connects their life and death, would be cut.

The morning after that was worse. I had a horrible feverish nightmare about the note. It kept repeating over and over in my head. I couldn't forget it. I wished that television would cure this feeling of paranoia, but it only increased my fear.

A serial killer. The killer was lose, near my hometown. Every murder was clean. It was done amazingly, no source or trail. No pieces of evidence. Just the lifeless body, in a graceful pose. If the cause of death was blood loss, the cut was straight. It wasn't jagged or rough, as if it was done by a professional. If the cause of death was a gunshot, the bullet always landed right near the corpse. They fell drop dead on the floor with such elegance. The wound was never messy, like if their tainted skin was porcelain. You wouldn't notice it at first.

And then I realized it.

The murder was art. It was like a gallery of amazing, well-sculpted works of artistry. It was a show with a great start and ending. It met all expectations of every viewer.

Their murder was perfection.