I breathe in the sharpness of the cold air gladly. Another breath comes and another, my blue eyes shoot open and my pupils adjust dramatizing the rest of my blue eyes that seem to burst with colors during the adjustment. I sit upright in the dewy grass and inhale the scent. Everything is perfect and beautiful, the sky is blue, not bright blue but between dark and light leaning toward dark just as I prefer it to be. I smile because there’s no bugs, no sun and yet dim light coming from the sky. There’s a faint scent of the salty waters I had visited in Washington the year before. My senses are heightened and I can almost taste the water. I’m about to get up when an outstretched arm appears seemingly out of nowhere, the man looks and me and nods toward his hand. I take it and he lifts me up quite clumsily. I nearly fall because the lift up is so sudden.
“I’m sorry” he says.
“For what?” I reply, still looking around in wonder.
“Because I know how much this means to you. How much you love and want this. You’ve forgotten your worries and all you remember or know is the happiness that awaits you if you stay.” He says it with great pain as if every word stings the very tongue they roll off of. His accent is thick and Italian, I look up at him and see that he is very out of place here. Everything seems prestigious and clean here and I know I fit perfectly because of the state of my hands and the way I feel. He’s rugged with wrinkles and stubble on his face. Middle aged, dark brown hair and a grave look on his face. Yes, very different from all of this.
“You must understand I wish you could stay,” He says, “I am your friend, I don’t wish to hurt you. I wish to help you and your family.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask bewildered.
“This will sound crazy but trust me” he says softly yet sympathetically.
He leads me to a white door in the middle of the grass field. There are sections of different settings, they’re all uniquely beautiful. They are slivers that begin with the door and branch off to become bigger and resemble a clock in format.
“Understand that this is your perfection, these sections are what you want, they’re the natural beauties that you love. You can choose to stay but that door will vanish. I need you to go through the door, I know it’s a lot to ask from you and that you’ve not known me for very long but it’ll be for the best I promise.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing and after a minute I finally respond “Why?”
“They miss you too greatly, it wasn’t in the book, it was a mistake. I fix those mistakes” He answers.
“What book? I… I just don’t understand” I stammer.
“The book of destiny, the book where your futures are written, rewritten and set. New things are put in it daily but the book made it clear that although things are always in motion and changing your destiny of this day cannot. Too many things would come after. It would set off a deadly effect. That’s why you need to go back. I’m sorry, I wish you could stay because it is really beautiful you know” he says.
I look up at him and feel this need, a need to go through the door. A warmth caresses that feeling with the reassurance everything will be alright and so I open that perfect gleaming white door and step through.

I do not find perfection through the door. I find a broken body, sad, mangled and bloody with tubes stuck into it. The beeping is steady and people are crying and a middle aged woman is holding her hand. MY hand actually. It’s the truth to hard to bear. Tears stream down my face as I suddenly can’t walk nor breath and I go back to being broken and I know what comes next. I have to be put back together. The man picks up my broken mangled soul, the one who had been in that perfect world and paired it with my broken mangled body. The last thing I remember was his smile and a soft thank you. He told me to remember the scars wouldn’t define me. That I should love myself because my beauty was on the inside. He would find me again when it was time.

And then I woke up broken and in pain, choking on the lump in my throat wishing for perfection again.