Story by Dan Beams


            
Fatal Flaws


            
 

            
Some memories are better left lying dormant.
            Although we wish to believe we're in complete control of our
            mind, make no mistake, we are not. Occasionally unsavory things
            bubble to the surface and demand to be dealt with. One such memory
            from many summers past now begs to be recorded, and so it shall
            be.



            It escapes me as to who was responsible for the invention of
            the game, perhaps it alludes me for good reason. In all likelihood
            the creation was mine, but my best friend was only too quick
            to oblige me in playing. A foregone conclusion now, it was foolish
            to have taken such pride in being naturally adept at that game,
            but as a youngster analyzing details was unimportant. The world
            isn't just about fun and games and the simple fact that we called
            it a game didn't alter our actual intent.

            
"Flaws" as we so aptly named
            it didn't have many rules. There was a single objective; come
            up with as many physical defects in a person's appearance as
            possible and record them on a notepad. The player listing the
            greatest number of flaws was the winner. It was a simple but
            devious game and somehow the intriguing subtleties consumed me.
            It would not be overstated to say the game became an addiction,
            just as ugly and demanding of a compulsion as any other.

            
The public arena seemed to provide the
            greatest number and variety of unsuspecting victims. For this
            simple reason we frequented the local malls and county fairs,
            as they seemed to be a rife with distorted individuals.

            
The very first time we played was at the
            fair. Once inside the front gate I immediately sensed the experience
            would be different from years past as these paltry amusement
            rides could no longer hold me captive. The temptation to play
            increased as the number of people comprising the crowd did also.
            My mind donned its shining mental armor, shifted into predator
            mode, and prepared for the ensuing battle. With a quick glance,
            like two addicts looking for an out of the way corner to get
            their fix, we weaved our way through the crowd and found a comfortable
            bench. This, my friend, was a target rich environment and that
            was all that was required for our secret game. 



            After finishing several rounds our eyes danced with a mischievous
            glimmer and our faces were painted with smiles of satisfaction.
            Somehow this small dose of cruelty was enough to quench our desire-but
            only for now, both of us realized it wouldn't be long before
            the urge came calling again.

            
I suppose for several reasons, brevity
            being the least important and my sanity being foremost, we'll
            roll forward to present day. Where my mind sits imprisoned and
            sorts out the details of the game.

            
At some point the private realization dawned
            on me; this had become more of a lifestyle rather than merely
            a simple game, but this revelation didn't begin to slow my deep-seeded
            love for the game. Deriving indescribable pleasure from innocent
            people's pain seemed to come natural to me. In my mind I had
            become an intellectual Jeffrey Dauhmer, able in short order to
            strip any human being of their dignity. Only a pile of chalky
            white bones remained in the wake of my wrath. The fact the victims
            were unaware of the invisible grief they had been stricken with
            began to haunt me. Perhaps it would be beneficial for them to
            realize their obvious flaws?



            Over the next several months we continued to play, with only
            slight variations. Although we could no longer allow our victims
            to roam free because instead of writing down the flaws we physically
            began to 'correct' them. My preference was for the scalpel, it's
            ever- so-sharp blade always cognizant of only removing the offending
            area. Suffice it to say we had crossed a 'not so thin line'.
            It was a gradual transition, mind you; prompted by the voices
            that continually began to accost me.

            
Perhaps a fresh perspective on things would
            be appropriate now, allowing my best friend to tell some of this
            story from his point of view. Sadly that is no longer possible;
            his vicious and sharp tongue was unfortunately one of his glaring
            flaws. Regretfully this 'correction' required my steady hand
            also. Years have washed away the clarity of those images, too
            graphic and numerous to count, but the 'correction' of my friend's
            flaw remains my single regret. Perhaps it was haste on my part,
            but he was weak and would certainly be unable to keep our secret.
            His sarcastic tones will be missed, but the risk was too great.
            Now I have the best of both worlds, carrying his sharp and forked
            tongue with me at all times.

            
Those of you reading today might incorrectly
            assume that I perceive myself as flawless. Outward flaws only
            mar your appearance to the world and are easily remedied, yet
            the ones that plague me in multitude, are hidden from view. The
            doctors here believe they have convinced me to refrain from cutting
            myself any longer, in a futile attempt to release the spirits.
            Not by their requests has the cutting stopped, but only in my
            own admission that these demons have found a dingy domain, breeding
            undisturbed in the dark corners of my soul, and have no reason
            to seek refuge elsewhere. 



            These perceived horrific actions have not come to me by conscious
            choice; rather due to my affliction of special insight and a
            great responsibility. Only the padded wall between myself and
            the guards restricts me from acting upon this obligation even
            now. I refuse to release the belief that all humans seek perfection.
            Why would our society waste millions of dollars on diets, plastic
            surgery, and the like if it were not so. The professional licenses
            they hold to do similar work, albeit inferior to my art, seem
            inconsequential to me.

            
Perhaps long after my scheduled execution,
            instead of being considered mad, society will hail me as a visionary.
            Only giving those poor flawed humans what they so desperately
            desired-perfection.

            


            Dan Beams is a 40-year-old
            self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central
            Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and
            Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last
            year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is
            less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to
            the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed
            upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess,
            in great abundance, those things not easily measured.

            
You can read more of Dan's
            poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/