LCARS
Library Computer Access and Retrieval System

Perfect
Shawn Thornburg

A woman, clearly in her seventies, stopped, breathless, under the light of a single street lamp that stood alone in the foggy twilight. Her heavy wheezing, an attempt by her over-taxed lungs to regain the oxygen her out-of-shape body (for she always felt it was out-of-shape) wasted beseeching old muscles to propel an old body at a sprinter's pace, forced her to stoop forward and place a steadying hand on the cold surface of the lamppost (it didn't have a texture like any metal she'd ever touched, but it cooled her hand just as quickly, so she accepted it as such and dismissed its rough, almost fabric-like quality as the imperceptible ravages of rust under its surface; she thought it had probably been painted over a number of times to keep it looking new despite its decay). She turned her attention away from the post, and, though she couldn't see over a few yards past the fog, she knew from the waning glow around her that the night was fighting for control of the last glimmer of daylight that was dying on the horizon. Around the corner of what she thought was a building a few hundred feet away, she saw a faint hint of illumination that flickered as if being given off by a decrepit marquee; she thought the light looked so pale and distant it might as well have been shining through the tinted upstairs window of a home five blocks down the street (a street which she, for all her running, had not been able to reach). Her head started spinning in response to her sudden stop, and the crisp evening air seeped through her nostrils, adding to the vertigo. She slid her back down the lamppost to the ground and curled her petite figure inward, clutching her forehead; she raised her knees to her chin, but the gaping holes in her slacks laughed in her face, an unwelcome souvenir of her ravaged life, which, like the lamppost, had been painted over far too many times, so she extended her legs tersely and sat slouching in the cool dusk. A wave of resignation tingled over her body: somehow she knew she would never reach the edge of that building; she knew she would neither cast her eyes upon the source of the flickering light nor feel the relief of whatever shelter she hoped would be there, and she slouched even more at the thought.

Darkness finally won its battle and the street lamp suddenly seemed brighter; the light around the corner, however, seemed even more distant and faint. The woman, realizing that the cold concrete beneath her would be the warmest, softest bed she would find tonight, gingerly positioned her body in the most comfortable position she could find (if any position could have been called comfortable) and closed her eyes, extremely grateful for the odd absence of insects.

Her mind swarmed with old thoughts, thwarting her vain attempt to sleep: she drifted back to a better time, when she had everything she knew she needed, when life was on a silver platter, when her world was, for lack of a better word, perfect; she relived the time when she sold her family's business secrets, crippling the company, and, when her siblings naively came running to her for support, reluctantly (if you call demanding that all accounts be signed in her name and sole business authority be ceded to her reluctant) accepted the responsibility of saving them from certain ruin; she recoiled at the thought that she might not be where she is now if her family had still been in control when--. "No," she told herself. How could she allow herself to think like that? Nobody--not even her father--could have survived . . . but she knew better. She knew it was all her fault that the questionable deals went sour, that the business crumbled, that every penny was sucked from her to compensate the workers and investors when the lay-off scandals occurred, that she was disowned by her whole family, and that she was forced to the streets when she refused to work menial jobs to pay bills, refused to live with "lethargic, thieving guttersnipes" in homeless shelters when she was evicted, and was refused by everyone whom she asked for shelter. She couldn't hold back the tears that squeezed through her closed eyes.

Gradually the woman became aware that a noise other than her crying was wiggling its way into her ears, and approaching; she lifted her head and listened more intently. She eventually identified the sound, contrasted against the still night, as the soft crackle of tires rolling slowly over loose rocks in the asphalt--but it was muffled, as if coming from a car on the other side of a fence. She looked all around her for the headlights (for it was pitch black and foggy out, and no one with any good sense would be driving without them) but saw only the faint, nagging light she knew would be there. She thought for a moment that the car must be beyond that distant light already, but the sound was still coming closer, so she ousted that idea promptly. But she couldn't comprehend why a car was out driving on a pitch-black night without headlights. It didn't matter, she decided, so she stood up as quickly as her body would allow and tried to scream, but what came out instead was a half-garbled "help" and a number of hoarse barks. She concentrated to hear the car through her coughing, and heard it continue to roll down the street, unfaltering. Before it receded completely, another sound overtook it: footsteps.

They were echoing, so she wasn't completely sure where they originated, but they were coming closer--of that she was sure--and when they were so close she thought whoever was making them would certainly be able to see her, she spoke: "Hello? Who's out there?" She didn't know why she felt the urge to call out to a stranger in the middle of the night, and she thought it might have been a mistake when the footsteps stopped; but when they continued, this time in the other direction (and faster, as if running), she experienced an odd mix of relief and disappointment. And so she reassumed her place on the ground, again content to stay until morning.

It was ten minutes before more footsteps reached her ears, but it was a long ten minutes: for no reason she could fathom she had been expecting them and counting the seconds. They came steadily closer, and closer, and closer; finally, they stopped and she felt eyes staring at her through the darkness. She had no idea what to think. Was someone going to attack her? Was it someone she knew? (She almost panicked at that last question, for she thought everyone she knew absolutely despised her.) Was someone simply trying to frighten an old woman for entertainment? If that was it, success was surely on the way. But she decided she wasn't going to sit back and speculate when she could find out from the source, so she rose slowly to one elbow and opened her mouth to speak.

"Hello, ma'am. It's a little nippy tonight, don't you think?"

The woman, her mouth still hanging open, realized that the deep, grating male voice did not come from her. "Um . . . yuh--yes," she managed, looking around in an attempt to pinpoint the speaker. "Who are you?"

"Just a man out for a walk."

"A walk," she said, dubious, "at this time of night?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"Not really. But don't most people take walks earlier in the day?"

"Sure, I suppose most people do, but I'm not like most people. And neither are you, I gather."

She shot up to a sitting position and tried to look insulted. "How do you mean?"

"I also gather that you know 'how I mean'."

"What a snob he is," she thought. "I can deal with snobs." She relaxed a little. "Humor me."

"Don't you have a place you can go: a house, a shelter, anything?"

She bit her lip. A few thoughts about cutting off noses that are prodding where they don't belong flashed through her head, but the last thing she wanted to do was provoke a possibly avoidable attack, so she decided to change the subject. "How do I know you're not some kind of psychopathic killer?" She had no idea why she chose that subject, and her lack of forethought surprised her.

"Good question."

"Crap," she thought, and then kicked herself mentally. "Well, can I at least see you if you insist upon pestering me?" She kicked herself again, but decided to continue with this subject anyway.

"Why do you need to see me?"

"You'll forgive me for saying that I don't exactly trust you right now."

"Sure. I'll forgive you," said the man sincerely, "but how will seeing me help you trust me?"

"Why do you answer everything with a question?" she snapped. She tensed visibly and closed her eyes, waiting to feel the impact of a raging man leaping from the darkness. When the man spoke again, with a tone of amusement, she almost jumped.

"You'll forgive me for saying that I . . . don't exactly trust you right now."

"I guess I deserved that," she thought. "Fair enough. At least let me see your shoe."

The man paused. "My shoe?"

"Sure. I've always been able to tell a lot about a man by his shoe." She waited for a few seconds, searching the ground; when she decided the man wasn't going to comply, she said, almost pleadingly, "It will help me trust you a little more." After a few seconds more, a black, polished dress loafer appeared briefly at the edge of the light before retreating into the shadows.

"What does it tell you about me?"

Oh, she had him figured out to the last detail now! But there was something odd, as though she already knew all about him before she ever saw his shoe; it was the same feeling she had when she realized she had been expecting his footsteps. "It tells me that you are a well-organized, prompt, clean man who enjoys intellectual games. You enjoy solving complicated problems--especially others'. Judging by the wear around the sole, I'd say you walk a few miles every day." She didn't know where she was finding this information, but she knew she didn't get it from the shoe.

"You're good. That describes me quite well. Now let me have a shot at it."

"Oh that's a fair advantage: you can see all of me," she replied sarcastically.

The man just chuckled a little and proceeded to tell her about her life like he was reading from a book: he knew how she was once a spoiled little rich girl, how she brought about the slaughter of her company, how she betrayed even her own family and had no trace of a conscience left; and the whole time he was speaking, his voice was even and tempered--absolutely hypnotic--and the woman, despite her growing dread that this man was likely not a stranger, felt her eyelids yield more and more to gravity's pull. Finally, her limbs and body became as heavy as concrete and she collapsed, fast asleep.

When the woman awoke, it still seemed to be nighttime, and since the street lamp above her was dark, the only light she could see was the same inaccessible illumination around the building. But now it seemed much closer--only a few yards away--and looked as if it was shining through a square hole in a wall. She rose awkwardly and began shuffling forward, groping the air with her hands, but she couldn't spread her fingers, as though her sleeves were too tight and much too long. Her concern quickly shifted from her hands to her ears, however, when a deafening alarm threatened to obliterate her hearing completely. To her relief, it only lasted for a moment, but once it ceased, she feared for her sight, for the space around her erupted into blinding radiance, and even as she threw her hands over her eyes and fell to the floor, she wondered how many more senses she would have to worry about losing today. After a few minutes, she worked up enough courage to open her eyes again, and once she adjusted to the light, she realized she was somewhere completely new, and completely unfamiliar: the concrete below her feet was the same, but it also formed the walls and ceiling of the small room around her; in one corner was a steel door with a head-sized square window; in another corner was a concrete slab jutting out from the wall, two feet above and parallel to the floor--about like a low bed; suspended from the ceiling by a thick cord was a lamp that looked eerily similar to the street lamp from the night before; behind her, and high above her, was a small window, and it was through this that the blinding sunlight was shining. Then she remembered her constricted hands and looked down: her sleeves were stark white and almost one and a half times the length of her arms (one had a silver buckle at its end and the other had a long strap: she had no trouble identifying her shirt as a straight jacket); her slacks were also stark white and covered her feet like pajamas, but there were no holes in the knees like there were the night before (smaller buckles and straps ran up the length of each of her legs--she thought her slacks must be "straight pants", and she actually laughed out loud at the thought even though she was confused and frightened out of her wits). But why was she in a straight jacket? Had she been taken somewhere while she was sleeping? She stumbled to the door and tried to open it, but there was no handle and every time she tried to pass her hand through the head-sized hole, it was repelled by some kind of invisible barrier. "A force field?" she thought, "What is this, Star Trek?" She turned and tried to grab the ledge of the window, but it was too high and there was nothing in the room she could use as a step. She crumpled to the floor, defeated.

Then she heard a familiar sound: the crackling tires on the asphalt. She ran to the door and looked through the hole, expecting to see a car roll by, but what she saw instead was a group of shadowy people dressed in what appeared to be white lab coats and carrying clipboards, and she realized it was their shoes clacking on the floor that made the sound of the crackling tires. Was that what she had heard all night? And did the lamppost feel like fabric because she was actually feeling the fabric of her straight jacket? She backed away from the door and pushed herself as far into one of the corners as she could manage. Slowly she became aware of voices beyond the door: one undoubtedly belonged to the man she had met last night, but the other was unfamiliar. She listened intently, and after they spoke, she remembered everything. And after she remembered everything, she cried. But she didn't cry for herself. And this is what the voices said:

"Is she going to do this every night, doctor? I never would have accepted this transfer if I thought I would have to deal with--"

"No, no. You don't have to worry about her any more. I'll change your duty roster. But if you do end up down here again, just remember to come and get me like you did last night and I'll talk her to sleep. Okay?"

"Alright. But can you tell me what's wrong with her? I mean, frankly, it's scary."

"She simply has dissociative episodes. When her conscious mind wants to get away from the reality of her situation, she envisions herself living another life. Why she chose such a dreary life as an escape I don't know, but who knows what thoughts float around in an insane mind? I guess that's what happens when you're the last of your species."

"Oh yeah, I wanted to ask you about that. What happened to her race anyway?"

"The details are foggy, but it had something to do with some artificial disaster or . . . (now what was that word) . . . war? Something like that. But the fact remains that they did it to themselves. I'm just glad we could save one of them, and that we've kept her alive for this long. Too bad we can't put her back on her planet. They destroyed that beyond repair. Besides, there's no one of her species left to keep her company."

"Gee, that's horrible. What species would ever be foolish enough to destroy itself?"

"Humans. Go figure."

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