Perfect

''The following is a pre-suicide note left by a female student at a public high school on 9/29/2014. For privacy reasons, we will not disclose the name of the school, and the signature at the end of the note will be cut off. This is to be viewed only for staff members of the school and any doctors, psychologists, or trauma specialists working on the case.''

Why can't I be perfect? I try so hard to be good, and smart, and strong, and beautiful, but I always have flaws. My mother always tells me that I'll end up homeless if I don't get good grades. She keeps telling me that those people did bad and school, and that's the only reason why they're like that. She never takes anything less than an A plus. Always saying that it's possible to get a perfect score. And if I don't do it, she just scolds me. She says that I'm a disappointment. She often tells me tht the only way that I could be so bad is if I was adopted. I can see why my birthparents would set me up for adoption. "Look at this ugly baby. It's not perfect." they would say. But I want to be perfect.

My dad wants me to be perfect to, and so whenever I get bad grades, he gets out the belt. Another thing that he gets out is the video camera. He always says that if I don't do well, that he'll show me getting hit with the belt naked to the entire school. I don't want them to see that. I don't want them to see my body. It's not perfect. But I want to be perfect.

I remember one time in school there was an assembly about anti-bullying, and the Columbine High Shooting. They talked about Rachel Scott. She was the first one to get shot. They kept going on and on about her. How she stood up for a disabled kid who was being bullied. How she was always friendly, participated in school events, sports, and got wonderful grades. I bet she's the child my mother would want. At the end of the assembly, I was in tears. Probably because I wasn't perfect. But I want to be perfect.

But know I know how to be perfect. I've figured out a way. And as I'm standing here with tears and mascara running down my face, staining the page that I'm writing on, I will tell everyone out there how to be perfect. I can't believe I didn't find out sooner. Soon, I will stop being whipped. I won't be homeless. Nobody will see my imperfect body. In order to be perfect, you have to do what I will do after I write this letter. You have to become what I become after I write this letter. And what I will become is nothing. Why?

Because nothing is perfect.