The Cost of Perfection

Every day I awoke earlier than the sun and began my plight. Like Sisyphus I pushed my boulder up my mountain every morning before the rooster’s first crow and it rolled back down every night when the sun fell. Yet my work had purpose. I was ensuring the future of humanity. Repetitive, but full of meaning.

As always, I began by heading down to the nursery and checking the infants, ensuring that they were well. I aided those that were not, row of fifty by row of fifty. Eventually the sun began to creep up into the sky as I passed the fiftieth row. As expected around a tenth of the infants were not of sound health, and undoubtedly more would be unwell tomorrow, but that was usual and there were always more.

Next, I proceeded to the school. I watched as the rows filled, the children settled and prepared for the assessment. When the timer rang, I collected the children’s scores. Each morning, they sat a single test — assessing mental aptitude, physical prowess, and educational progress. I passed each row, one by one until I had collected every test from all twenty rows of thirty. I watched as they departed, all 537 of them. Silence blanketed the world. I had succeeded. For a time.

Until the peace was broken by a drip drop. I spun, searching for the sound until I realised where it had come from.

The cost of perfection dripped from my metallic fingers, crimson and cold.