I sit in a field of flowers in full bloom. I don't remember how I got here or how long I have been sitting. Hell, I don't remember my name. I almost wish I did, but I like it here. A breeze gently moves the flowers, their pleasant aroma caressing my nostrils as much as the delicate petals do my folded arms and legs. I shut my eyes, cutting myself off from the splatter of colors. I am content to just sit and breathe and enjoy what has been set in place for me. Just for me, I feel, this entire plane.

I stretch out onto the plants which give way without complaint to my weight. The floral cushion offers little resistance and pads my spine from the ground. Time seems to stand still here, the occassional breeze being the only indicator time has not stopped entirely. The sky is not bright, there is no sun, but it is light. The flowers seem to give off their own luminescence, radiant blooms of red, yellow, purple, and orange against a powder blue sky.

Another breeze rolls in, though it seems unusually gusty compared to the others that have come by. It carries with it a sound:

"Come home..." it whispers in my ears.

Of course I am just imagining things, the only sound is the delicate rustling of leaves and my own breathing. Another gust ruffles my hair, sending it annoyingly into my eyes. As I brush it out with my fingers I hear again,

"Come home!"

That is silly, I don't need to go home, I want to be here. I wonder for a moment, where is home? But I banish that thought, there is no need for home. The sky darkens, a steely gray that consumes the wonderful blue. A whipping gale forces me to the ground as I attempt to stand.

"Come home!" the voice on the wind insists.

Thunder booms in the distance. This isn't right. This isn't perfect. My place is perfect, it has to be perfect here. This place is mine, I don't want to go home. If only I knew where home was. I turn over onto my stomach to hide my eyes in the pretty blooms. As I watch, the stem of the red flower before me begins to brown, climbing slowly to engulf the bloom. The petals fall supernaturally slow from the top, darkening to black as it descends. Before the petal hits the ground it explodes into ash as though incinerated. I scramble to my feet. All around me the flowers brown and blacken. I take a step back as the blackness spreads. Beneath my feet the flowers powderize into black dust.

I turn and run, attempting to flee the circle of death that seems to radiate from me. As I run blindly another wind kicks up the ash of the flowers I left behind, blackening the sky and filling my eyes, nose, and mouth. As I run I try to clear my eyes, gagging and choking as the ash invades my lungs. Lightning strike nearby, but I cannot tell if the flowers are burning or if my own bizarre curse is producing the burnt charcoal smell. I trip on a snag of roots and stems that seem to curl around my ankles. I land hard. I push myself up and tear my feet loose.

Pain flares in my palms. There are hundreds of small cuts and bits of thorns embedded in my hands. This isn't right, my flowers don't have thorns. My flowers are perfect. Everything is perfect here. Lightning strikes again and I dash further ahead, but I cannot outrun the screaming winds that call for me. I scale a small slope and survey the plane, looking for shelter. Everything is black now, turned to dust and scattered in the wind. Lightning blasts the already burnt landscape and a whirlwind kicks up what black powder remains to the ground.

The wind sets upon me and drowns out my own screaming, ripping at my clothes, skin, and hair. I feel my exposed skin bleed as it is lacerated. A dampness runs from my scalp to my forehead as the wind pulls chunks of hair from my head. Tears are swept from my eyes as the terrible gale rips at my eyelids. Gashes split skin and muscle from the bones in my forearms. I try to squeeze shut my eyes from the storm that screeches in my ears. Soon my eyelids are shredded, exposing my delicate corneas to the winds. I see only red as the blood fills my eyeballs before those too are torn and split. My nails are ripped by the roots from my fingers and toes as efficiently as they would by pliers. I try to scream to the wind to take me home, but when I open my mouth it fills with ash. My screams turn to desperate gags as I slowly lose consciousness. The sound of the wind ceases, my sense of touch numbs. Everything stops. There is nothingness. Perfect.

The Department Head of the Office for Human Research examines the mutilated corpse before him. From the report:

Doctors had attempted to soothe a patient with overwhelming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with the experimental drug known currently as Perfection. After being dosed the patient immediately became unresponsive to external stimuli, sinking into what the machines said was blissful unawareness. For several hours they allowed the patient to remain as such, but eventually the patient became so utterly detached from reality that his respiratory rate dropped dangerously low. Several attempts were made to resuscitate the patient, but were unsuccessful until one orderly called for the patient to come home having heard of those in comas being brought back through such means. At first it appeared to be a success as breathing and pulse rate went up. Everyone in the room began calling for the patient to return until the patient's pulse raced beyond what was healthy and breathing became erratic. Soon the patient began tearing at himself, drawing blood. Orderlies attempted to restrain the patient, but in his panicked rage nothing could stop him. Ripping out locks of hair from his own scalp, scratching through muscle to bone in places onlookers were too horrified to do anything but scream. By his own hand he tore off his eye lids and scratched out his eyes. When it seemed there was no skin left undamaged the patient began systematically ripping out his nails, contorting himself beyond normal capabilities to remove even the pinky toenails. Convulsing on the bed, restraining straps in ribbons, the patient began violently asphyxiating himself. Despite the terrifying, self-inflicted violence, everyone in the room agrees that just before passing the patient's pulse rate dropped to that of a dreamer's.

Beneath the report the Department Head checks a box: Further testing required.

That was...disturbing to say the very least. Kuddos. You just beat your cousin in the creepy/disturbing...but he's still got yah on depressing. And giving me nightmares...but I haven't fallen asleep yet...so maybe.

You kids and your doom and gloom short stories.

I can only say this:

Holy shit.

(Okay, I lied, I can say more than that. SERIOUSLY freaky, mildly squicky, and with an interesting twist at the end. Very well done.)

Edit: By the way, very nice imagery.