Summer Rochelle ☼ D2

Have you ever noticed that when people describe themselves they act like they're looking in a mirror? Sadly enough, I have two mirrors. One that hangs on the wall and shows who I am, and one that displays a version of me that I never want to see myself become.

I find myself turning from my first mirror to look at my second one, who lounges out on my bed. This said mirror is my twin, Wynter Rochelle. Her wavy dark brown hair, the same chocolaty brown shade as mine, spirals around her face. Slight dirt dances on her skin, and a few bruises stain the ivory fairness. Oh the woes of being a Career. Still, the sight of her hair laying messily around her and noticing the wretched wrinkles that etch across her shirt causes me to close my eyes with a gasp and turn back to my number one mirror. "Wynter, perhaps you'd fancy a change of clothing? You could borrow one of my already ironed outfits? I think my blue dress I normally wear on Sunday would suit you. I can always iron it and clean it when you get done. And, perhaps again, I could comb your hair for you? Maybe put it up? I-," suddenly a barrage of suggestions fly from my lips, which result in a scowling Wynter bolting up and yanking Earbuds out of her ears.

It's always odd being around Wynter. People whisper about her. They call her a freak, just as they do to me. Except Wynter has this aura around her that screams 'piss off.' I however, scream 'hey, come and laugh at me and my weakness.'

So, it's by no doubt that people see me as just as much of a freak as my Misophonia-stricken sister. I always have a bad habit of offering my suggestions, you see. I've had many a guy run away from me after the first date. They always like me at first. They call me beautiful and other things. But, that first time they take me to dinner and I tell them to close their mouth as they chew, or to fold their napkin, they bolt out. And they usually bolt into the arms of Wynter. Oh, Wynter. She doesn't care about how people chew. Heck, she could care less about wrinkles. Just stay quiet and you're good to go. She's fierce, brave, and feisty. And me? I'm just a girl who strives for something impossible.

"I kind of wish I was like her, I whisper to myself as I cuddle my knees to my chest as I sit up in bed. "I wish I was free from this anxiety. Free to be free. But I'll never be like her. I'll always be the failure Career. The imperfectly perfect girl."

I lay myself down on the bed. I turn slowly to my end table, slowly so that I don't wrinkle my covers, and pick up my stuffed teddy-bear. I stroke his soft cheek. Mr. Ted was one of my only friends. I bring him to my chest and hold him. "Who am I, Mr. Ted? I mean," I search for the correct words, "am I crazy? Please tell me I'm not crazy." I wait for an answer. but nothing comes. I inhale slowly and gently. There was only one strong thing about me: I never cried. I was a bottle, you could say. I hated crying. It makes your eyes puffy, cheeks red, and causes you to be a mumbling mess. So, I forced myself to stop. I bottle everything up, and I throw my pain into the trash-bin. It kills me; it makes me shake in agony sometimes. But I can't stop; I can't stop who I am. I am the girl who wants perfection. I need it like a drug. I try to perfect everything I see. So, yes, I am annoying. But, I can't help it. I'm weak, fragile, and I don't get myself. But, I wish I did. I wish I could let everything go, let everything free into the wind's arms. But I can't... That wouldn't be the perfect thing to do.

"You're such a good listener, Mr. Ted," I say as I pat his back. "I just wish you could answer me." I bring my nails to my lips. I want to bite them for some reason; I want to bite them to take attention away from my mind that is going in overdrive. But I can't, I cannot bite my nails. I can't whistle, I can't rock back and forth, or practically anything because none of that is perfect. I'm trapped in a world where I can only do so much. I'm limited. I'm like a bird with a broken wing, I can't fly. And in contrast, neither can my dreams.

"I used to want to be a dancer," I whisper to Mr. Ted with a faint sigh. That dream was short lived, however. The costumes were too tight, the tutus were too frilly, every little stance I did was imperfect, and Wynter was always there booing at me; always watching everything I did while she smirked with those Earbuds of her's in her ears. She downed everything I did and pointed out every flaw. And, in the end, it broke me. I guess I can't deny it. In all honesty... Wynter Rochelle is the reason I am so fragile. I shiver as a chill runs up my spine.

"She broke me," I say faintly. "The girl who always called me imperfect... made me perfect." I laugh shortly, before sighing. I hold Mr. Ted up and stare into his beady eyes.

"I am perfect now, right, Wynter?"

I walk around my room, dusting anything that stands still. I find serenity in cleaning. It's almost as if when the dust particles float up, so do my problems. It's kind of like an obsession, which I guess you could honestly say it was. I had to clean everything. I had to suggest every little tip I knew. I had to do the things that screamed in my mind before I imploded. It's like some part of me lives in my head and screams orders. And if I even disobey just one order, the voice screams louder and louder until I can't take it anymore. They say I'm OCD, and I know they're right. I've known it for the 17 years I've been alive. I'm the perfect, goody-goody girl among a sea of fierce Careers. But, I don't like to be labeled as a cleaning freak. I prefer being called a perfectionist. Because, that is what I am. I want to mold everything I come in contact with, including myself, into something perfect. It's my obsession; it's my habit.

I find myself falling back into my mind and everything falls back into place. I glance down at the picture I am dusting. I finish up, and pick it up with gentle fingers. Two young girls stand side by side. They both have wavy and chocolaty brown hair, bright blue eyes, and wide smiles. They're completely identical; they're completely happy and sane. Hard to believe I am one of those girls, let alone that Wynter is one of them. You see, there used to be a time when I was just an innocent Teacher's pet, and Wynter was just a feisty tomboy. But, like most things, it all shattered and broke.

Wynter was, in all honesty, the first one to loose her sanity. She came home one day, dirty and clutching her ears. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was now mentally scarred. Because, you see, something happened to Wynter that day, something that made her completely terrified of loud and abrupt noises, and forever made her an ice cold bitch monster. Something that would break any child, really. And thus, Wynter Rochelle: insane twin #1, came to be. (See Wynter Rochelle's bio for full story)

And, what about about me? Well, the new Wynter had a habit of downing everything and everyone. I won't lie to you, I've always been fragile. But, I was sane back then. I was, I promise. I used to be glad about everything. I didn't care about the dirty, shabby house I lived in. I didn't care about my middle-class label, either. I just didn't care. But, part of me wanted to care, and I tried so hard to keep that part locked away in my mind. However, Wynter let it free. Perhaps this thing called "insanity" is contagious.

Wynter had made it her duty to down every little movement I made. My clothes were too tight, too lose, my hair was too frizzy, my nose was too prominent, my dance skills were dreadful, my room was a mess, every little thing about me was imperfect in her eyes, and I believed her. I was so naive and so gentle. I believed in what my ice cold sister hissed, and I took all those tips and became the girl I am today. I refuse to let anyone find one flaw. Because, they don't know how bad it hurts. They don't what it's like to have every little flaw laid out on an examining table and explored. I had to do what I had to do, so I made myself perfect.

It was slow at first. I started doing more chores, and then I started to dress up a lot more. People just thought I was going thought that "blossoming stage" and becoming a young woman, which I was. I was becoming a young woman on her way to perfection. I then started to chew 20 times, wash my hands 10 times, and I started to feel bad about my family. Yes, my family tried, but they were imperfect. And now that I had cleansed myself, I wanted to cleanse everyone else.

I started to be labeled as the annoying girl who had opinions galore to offer at school. My friends flocked away, my parents just shrugged me off, and Wynter just screeched at me. Wynter told me everything would be better when I was perfect, but I am perfect now. So, why is no one here? Why does no one appreciate me and my perfection?

Why, why, why?!

I blink my eyes and snap back into my mind again. I exhale raspy breathes and the picture in my loose grip cascades to the ground, shattering all around. I gasp, and my hands start to twitch. I fall to my knees and start to pick up the glass, too petrified of the mess to go get a dust pan. My mind is fuzzy, and I can't keep locked on what I am doing. In a matter of seconds I yelp and lift a finger up. A liquid ruby drips from the tip and a scream gets lodged in my throat. I start to shake. Maybe this I why no one appreciates me, yet. Because I'm not perfect, yet... I'm really not.

I curl up in a ball, for once not caring about my dress wrinkling, as I shake in agony. I was insane. I was, wasn't I? I didn't have to ask Mr. Ted anymore, because I had always known the answer. I glance at the picture frame that lays cracked on the ground and I let out a whimper. I will cleanse myself of all my imperfections; I will become appreciated. I close my eyes as I let the first tear I've ever cried in years slide through.

What if, in all reality, perfection is insanity? Tell me, what do I do then? ... Please tell me. What can this imperfectly perfect girl do? Please.