So Pretty, so Fucking Perfect

A burning cigarette lights up the eternal darkness surrounding me. I can’t stand the things, but at the moment it serves to soothe my jittery nerves. The sharp scent of smoke fills the tiny room and burns my nose. It is no matter though.

I sit in the corner, my legs folded up under me, the cigarette in one hand and my face in the other. I look at her, so pretty, so fucking perfect. I take a drag of the cigarette and put it out against the faded beige linoleum; it hisses at me angrily.

I walk around the tiny office rubbing my temples wondering what to do next, my eyes fall to her. So pretty, so fucking perfect. She is slouched in a chair; her dress is rumpled and dirty. Her eyes are bloodshot; she is slicked with now cold sweat; foam and blood spill from her mouth and nose.

She never knew when to quit. What a waste.
So pretty, so fucking perfect.

Yeah right.

I hear the sirens. Thank God the cops are finally here. I can’t stand looking at her any more. I face the tiny window and squeeze my eyes shut as I press my hand over my eyes. Her bloodshot eyes haunt me, once such a lovely blue now foggy with drugs and death.

In a few moments the tiny room is buzzing with cops and paramedics. They take me outside. They ask me questions, so many questions. I answer the best I can, but all I can see are her eyes. So pretty, so fucking perfect.

My little sister, taking the fashion world by storm, dead at the age of 23 from a cocaine over dose. She who was lovely and vivacious, now dead. So pretty, so fucking perfect.

I light another cigarette and look at it. I will always love you little sister, but you messed up big, I can’t feel sorry for you now. I take a drag then throw it on the ground the walk down the street into the night.

So pretty, so fucking perfect. No, not perfect, no one is perfect.