Perfectionist

It needed to be beautiful. It needed to be astonishing. It needed to be ''perfect. Slowly, I cautioned myself, no need to rush.'' I wiped the perspiration that had accumulated on my forehead away. ''Focus. Don't mess this up.''

I continued to work. I must have sculpted all night. Time seemed to whiz by progressively faster by the hour. I couldn't stop. Not now. I was so close. So close to beauty. So close to ''perfection. '' I needed to continue, it was becoming psychically and mentally mandatory. I needed to finish.

Days turned into weeks. I looked horrible. I hadn't shaved, or even bathed in weeks. Dark circles had formed around my bloodshot eyes. I hardly noticed, I was too wrapped in concentration.

Finally, as I slathered the remainder of the clay onto my victim's body, I let out a large sigh. After it had dried, I picked him up, and added him to my masterpiece. No one would miss him, he was homeless after all. His face was still frozen in the same state of shock it was in when I killed him. My masterpiece was completed. It was beautiful. It was astonishing. It was perfect.