{Cookie} Ex-HMP #10
He hated perfection, yet he had to strive for it.
He was unsure of the reason for this, but as long as he could remember, he had been awed by beauty, tantalised by it. As a child, when he latched upon a pretty sight or object, he could stare at it for hours, wide violet eyes fascinated, ignoring everyone around him. His parents weren't quite sure what to do with him -- sometimes, they were rather embarrassed by this, but they wondered whether this fantastic being was actually a child of theirs. Faintly, he remembered that there had always been whispers around him -- not of fear, but rather of admiration.
For he seemed the embodiment of perfection. His appearance was a marvel -- he was a beautiful baby, toddler, child, teen, man. With his intelligent, clear violet eyes, long, graceful limbs, and slightly wavy golden hair, he turned heads no matter where he went. His melodious voice sung songs to the morning sun, and the birds grew quiet in shame. No matter what he wore, he pulled it off well. He was intelligent, and always seemed to know what best to do in any situation. Masterful at control, he was also masterful at manipulation, but he was so humble about it that no one really minded.
In fact, that word, "master", was an apt one for him, for he was master of several things. He eventually chose a primarily creative profession, perhaps in an effort to surround himself with the beauty that had so enthralled him -- though he never did that in public anymore. Still, this did not prevent him from being well-read, and able to debate on a variety of topics. It did, however, mean that he produced several pieces for further admiration by devotees. Masterpieces they were, and masterpieces they were called.
But there was one thing that was forbidden. No one really dared to say it -- people who had tried were coldly rejected. He did not like to hear that word. Perfection. It was a disgusting word, a disgusting thing to hope towards.
But as long as you did not mention perfection, he was an absolute joy to be around. So much so that no one ever knew he secretly detested himself, secretly wished he could do something so dramatically, disastrously wrong that he could gladly fall from the pedestal so many seemed to have placed him upon.
Cynically, he knew he would never attain perfection, for true perfection was impossible, and composed of millions of facets, several of which were probably not even discernable by humans. This did not disturb or upset him, but it did irk and frustrate him. Still, he could not let it show. He wanted to rage, to scream at the futility of it all, but when he opened his mouth, pleasantries came out.
He thought it was frightening.
He knew one way that would irrevocably prove that he was not the perfect being everyone thought he was, though. A simple, painless, quick end to this mockery of life he was leading. He was not selfless enough, though, to destroy all that he had created, too. Masterpieces they would remain.
Even during the funeral, perhaps especially so, people sighed and weeped to see the perfection within the casket. Hands folded serenely over his chest, his violet eyes closed in repose, a garland of white roses entwined in his hair, it seemed as if he was an ethereal being, asleep. Around him, easels of his drawings were set up, sculptures arranged, music played.
Deep in the night, something - not quite human, but somewhat more than a mere creature - moves slowly into the hall where the beautiful man lies, surrounded by beauty. It raises a pale, translucent hand of misty energy, running it over the lifeless corpse. After one pass, it shifts, a sound like the rustling of dry tissue in a dusty attic.
No one is around to listen, but if one had been, they would have caught the faint whispering of triple voices, sighing, "The Tenth one, and we cannot perfect our masterpiece. All of the Ten looked the same -- they did different matters, succeeded beautifully in different spheres, yet they all ended up like this, in one way or another. Not eternal, not perfect. A disappointment -- we must retire to make plans for the Eleventh. Perhaps...
"Perhaps, this time we will succeed."
c: 210707, 0352h
A/N: Ex-HMP stands for Experiment-Human MasterPiece. Not Higher Miraculous Power, for those who might have read my prologue for Serenade. XD Written for Jo, who played in Join the Concepts. Her prompt for her cookie was "Masterpiece", which really stumped me. XD I really wanted something other than the conventional definition of masterpiece -- for an object. So I came up with this semi-fantastical experiment-project idea -- that humans, ourselves, are created by something else that seeks to make masterpieces -- in the form of us. I could have developed some bits here more, but 4am, exhausted, no can do. Maybe I'll review it some day.