Avernaithe

~"Nil mé lan-ceart. Nil tu lan-ceart. Nil lan-ceart lan-ceart. (Gaelic: I am not perfect. You are not perfect. Perfect is not perfect."~

Seen from afar, the gem that was Avernaithe sparkled uniquely above whatever crowd she was in at the time. She was nearly always in a crowd. She had a perfectly shaped body. Her golden flecked hair shone in whatever light happened to caress her tresses. What first caught the attention of all she came in contact with, were her eyes, a beautiful lilac color. Many men bought drinks for her from a table across the room, with a napkin reading, "Phone Number?"

Of course, to this treatment, she would accept the drink, turn to face the man who bought the drink, and, from beneath the shade of her large brimmed hat, wink seductively with those lilac eyes twinkling like far away stars. More often than not, the man would leave the company of whomever he was with to join her at her table. He would take her hand gently, as if she were the most breakable work of china or porcelain, and proceed to kiss her fingers one by one, then her knuckles, and continue in this manner until her arm had been sufficiently covered in man-kisses, at which point he would attempt to relieve her of her hat. She always protested mildly to the attempt, but honest as she was, eventually let him have his way. First, the man would stare into the eyes, lilac wonders they were, and soon would be drawn by the slight widow's peak to her hair, which cascaded past her shoulders in gentle waves of gold. His hand would be drawn to touch the hair, and so, he fell to caressing the tresses. Presently, and finally, his gaze would be drawn to her face, and at this point, the man would usually catch his breath quickly, mutter something about wasting a drink, and walk away frowning.

Incidents such as these happened most nights in crowded barrooms or restaurants, with little or no attention being drawn to the situation. The gem known as Avernaithe would quietly don her wide brimmed hat and go about her usual business, occasionally attracting glances from other men, who would occasionally buy her drinks.

After any night was over, she went home to a nice, if modest, home on Loch McHale, a picturesque lakefront which was truly postcard material. And every night, she undressed quietly, placing her clothing in a neat pile next to her washing machine, and hanging her hat on a convenient hook on the wall. She strode through her house fully nude, reveling in the perfectness of her body, and knowing all the while that she was only deceiving those who would think her of a good form. When she reached the opposite end of her house, she entered the bathroom there, and looked long and hard at her face in the mirror.

Staring back at her was a deformed caricature of a face, piebald and twisted. Dark and light patches of skin mingled to form intricate designs, nearly like a grotesque lace, over her face, and as she looked down over her body, she saw the same filigree of light and dark tracing like shadows over heather fields at midnight and full moon. She saw in the mirror the contorted muscles and twisted them into a sad smile. She glanced at her silhouette on the wall, and noticed the perfect shape, the perfect thigh, the perfect torso. A sudden dread tore through her body as she saw another silhouette appear beside hers.

The body that Avernaithe owned fell violently to ground in a vicious spasm of fear. Her legs were stiff and heavy and her breath came in short gasps. For what seemed like minutes, she had no control over her legs. She forced herself to regain her composure, and as she whirled around to face whoever was trespassing on her property, her hand fell on the large, gilded hilt of a family blade.

The face was like one she hadn't seen before, yet saw everyday. She caught her breath violently and staggered to fall against the wall when she saw it, when she saw herself, whole. Standing in front of her was a perfect body, wearing a perfect face, but the face was that of Avernaithe's, without the twisted muscles and piebald coloration. The hair was the same, golden waves until just past the shoulders. Her skin, fully viewable in her nudity, was a pure tone, ivory, the color that should have been Avernaithe's had she been pieced together correctly. The eyes, however, were a different shade of lilac, almost blue, periwinkle one might say. They were terribly ordinary. They lacked the fire that had been seared into the eyes of Avernaithe from years of living in her imperfection. The two locked eyes for seconds until the fire of Avernaithe's eyes pierced through the periwinkle. Dull metal sheared through the air, and periwinkle eyes dimmed and closed.

The twin of Avernaithe lay naked, surrounded by a pool of her own blood, and the sword of Avernaithe lay next to the corpse. In depressed lettering, now bronzed by new blood, an old family credo exclaimed in Gaelic, "Like the color of the eye, we differ, and we are the same."

The imperfect body of Avernaithe sat on her floor and watched her sister's corpse. A single tear crept down her cheek. Presently she got up and went to her room, where she fell asleep nude under a sheet, with a window open. Outside, on the wind, safe from the hearing of Avernaithe, since she was sleeping, a voice cried out, the Gaelic words resounding across the loch. "Throw off that which makes a simple life impossible. Imperfection is the twin sister of perfection, for imperfection is the ultimate perfection."

The gem known as Avernaithe glided into the crowded restaurant. She was seated at a table. Presently, a gentleman at the far end of the place bought her a drink, and sent with it a napkin, which said, "Phone number?"