The Imperfectionist

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you get that scar on your cheek?" Philip, my new friend, pointed his short finger and brushed the pinkish line from the corner of my eye to the sharp of my chin as if he was healing it. I  turned away from the swamp that we were sitting in front of and stared back a little surprised. He had an odd curious look, like a little curious George or cat. My mouth went to say something but it hadn't thought of what to say yet. 

I shifted back to the swamp. What was I supposed to tell him? The swamp sat in front of me not giving much of an answer. There was only the plop of a bit of sludge falling from the lip of its mouth into the green acne covered water. I'd be surprised if life lived beneath its skin. Once I poked a stick around in it and fished myself a dead eel. Maybe once this place had true beauty, something even that slimy, inky eel could appreciate. But, it had kept its surrounding mess of trees and vines since I had found this place a while ago. I had run here to be alone and Philip had been half standing, half sitting like he was in the middle of getting up from a spot against a tree. We caught each other's eye and just stood there, sizing one another up like two rams trying to claim territory. He was a little older than me and wore unsuccessful clothes. He was very tired. Tired of everything. So we decided to be alone together.

But then as he asked, staring at my scar curiously, I didn't feel as alone anymore. Curiosity killed the cat you know.

It was different from the first time someone had asked. It was the same words and same polite tone. Back then, however, it used to come as a low whisper aimed towards my father. I was eight then and that's who he was. He was not my Dad, he was my father. A father who used his fists instead of his lips. A father who, as long as I was home before six, was the gentlest man on earth.

 Even then, standing in the doorway with the chandelier above his bleached blonde head, my father was the definition of suburbia.

Suburbia: A place where as houses come closer together the neater their lawns become.

I was standing half way out of the living room which no one ever did much living in, staring at our neighbour who always stared at me when I walked passed him on the way to school. I studied him and as I did I noticed he was wearing a similar version of success that my father wore. 

Success

· A light pin striped suit

· A black tie

· A shirt with a collar

· A forced smile

· And shoes that had been shined

This was a clean uniform for any suburban man and as this one asked, my father had shifted where he stood. He peered down at me from above his nose with those eyes we shared that were like crystal water: clear enough to see the bottom but deep enough not to step in.
"We had a car accident." He lied, keeping his success clean. Our neighbour made a sympathetic "Oh," and took the lie, but that's not what had happened.

Philip waited for an answer as I considered telling him what my father had said. Something made me hesitate. He stared. I thought, aren't you supposed to tell your friend everything? It had been a while since I had had a proper friend. The one who I once had was called Jamie and these days she and I were like suits and sandals. She liked to spend her time mimicking those plastic dolls in those magazines. You know the ones. The ones that were once human, but then an editor got to them. She was high-class, high-heeled and high-headed and not mention had a bunch of wannabes that followed her around like she was Jesus or something. While she dressed herself up I wore a long thick scar that ran from the corner of my eye to the sharp of my chin.

Hideous, Adjective. The only one we shared in common.

And this wasn't because Jamie was fat,  it was the fact that she tried to hide it. It's strange how when people do this their imperfections seem to attract more attention to themselves. Actually, I think it was Jamie who was the next one to ask.