It was 6:45 in the morning when she died. The birds were singing their constant chirps and the sun dawdling on the horizon. Amongst the perfect town of perfect houses and perfect people, a not so perfect morning had dawned.
With steaming hot mugs and whining children in tow, the perfect residents left their homes. They smiled contentedly at the daisies springing from their lawn, the manicured hedges neatly tucked in the background.
Shrill screams from pig-tailed chubby girls and scrawny little boys brought them out of their facade. They saw the edges of the daisies wilting, the unnoticed fades of the yellow petals. The mismatched cutting of the front hedges, the drooping bark of the willow tree. They saw it all through her eyes, a mocking black abyss, open even in face of death. They stared at the stained roads that were once a perfect shade of gray, now tainted with flickers of red. And in that moment they awoke, returning back to the colors of this world. The crumbling lives and the broken walls visible in every eye, struggling gasps and intense breaths on mouths.
And then they collapsed, a million paper carvings crumbling down.
But then they wheeled her away in their perfect white coats and perfect black vans. They cleaned the roads, a perfect gray shade again. The paper carvings rose, breathed back to life.
They smiled and they grinned at the daisies springing from their lawn, the manicured hedges neatly tucked in the background. Once again they clung to the perfect contrasts, burying away the unwanted shades.
And in the perfect town of perfect homes and perfect people, one less existed.
