Imperfections // a "Perfecticity" spin-off

Part 1: Memory loss

Quick author's note: This story is a spin-off dedicated to my writing buddy MintyFrxsh (and my late grandfather - I miss you). Recently, they wrote a DreamNotFound soulmate AU titled "Perfecticity", and this is my (non-canonical) interpretation of what happens next. I highly recommend you check out their work! This story contains major spoilers for "Perfecticity". Content warnings will appear at the headings of each chapter in which they apply!

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| 1696 words |

~The caretaker's point of view - 60 years after Perfecticity~

Ninety-five percent of the nursing home's apartments were designed for double occupants. Most caretakers preferred to attend residents in double-occupancy apartments, claiming soulmates living together were "less depressing" to supervise than single residents. Consequently, when I applied for a position in the minuscule single-occupancy section of the nursing home, the hiring process was swift. Although I would not trade my position for anything, I quickly understood the caretakers' opinions. Most single-occupant apartment residents had experienced the death of their soulmate, and now lived somber lives in the absence of their significant other. A particularly sad case was George.

I was George's primary caretaker. Even seasoned employees detested the stubborn resident, whose short temper stemmed from frustration with his Alzheimer's disease and significant memory loss. After his arrival at the nursing home twelve years ago, George's nimble mental powers declined gradually, then plummeted seemingly at once.

Retrieving the keys to George's apartment from the coat of my uniform, I heaved a sigh of preparation; while his hostility was unintentional, George could be difficult to manage sometimes. Unlocking his bottom-floor apartment, I entered, then eased the door closed behind me. Cold gray lighting dulled the apartment, but the air was stuffy and warm. In my earlier days, George kept every window open. Now, he struggled with operating even basic latches.

Passing the cramped kitchen, I glanced inside to find it empty, save for utensils and an abandoned plate on the counter. At least George had eaten recently; some single residents refused food after the loss of a soulmate, until medical complications forced us to supplement their diets.

I found George in the apartment's main living area, slouching in his wooden rocking chair as he stared out the window. Viewing his lean figure from behind, I announced my arrival, "Good afternoon, George."

My resident's spindly fingers gripped the rocking chair's armrests. He leaned back and forth at a painfully slow pace, his rheumy eyes fixed on the cloudy sky above. He responded not with a greeting, but rather with a sharp question, "Where are the stars?"

"The stars?" I blinked, approaching George's side. From above, I observed his scowling expression and trembling jaw. Rubbing his shoulder soothingly, I explained, "It's cloudy outside, George, and it's daytime. The stars aren't visible right now, but I'm sure you'll see them tonight."

"Not soon enough," George muttered. However, he finally turned his head away from the window to stare forlornly at his lap.

Hoping to lift his spirits from the lack of stars, I offered, "Have you written your daily list yet, George? If not, I'm happy to help."

"My list!" Immediately George straightened. I helped the elderly man stand from his chair, interlocking my elbow with his as we crossed the shaggy gray carpet toward the kitchen. Upon the small dining room table, beside a fake candle and stained placemats, lay a thick notepad. Depressions from the previous day's list were still visible on the top page.

Seating myself at the table with George, I edged my chair beside his as he gripped a pen in his unsteady hand. Politely I asked the same question as usual, "What word have you thought of for today, George?"