Analyse this, you miscreants.
And then the old man coughed a feeble cough, one that exclaimed either “I am weak!” or “You’re missing something”. Standing up, a white tear broke apart his face and slight dust fell from his cracked lips and forehead.
“I’m going to find my wife.”
Even as he said this his chalky complexion darkened. His hands clutching the toolbox, he left a trail of broken stone and dust. Through the shutters the light shone through his skin. Such fine skin, a fineness comparable to that of when you sift through sands of the desert. His face looked kindly but worn, a confused hue of neither light nor black. There were tight wrinkles stretched across his face, a web of lines that, though were quite shallow, looked so deeply engraved they marked his true face, and the rest of his flesh were layers piled insensitively atop it. His hands frail, long and trembling as they held a sharp scalpel. He stroked the face of a person whose similarity was not to go unseen, and a small paper-thin flake of soapstone cartwheeled to the floor. He stood back and grinned a mischevious and knowing smile at his creation.
He was familiar with the hundreds of antomical studies. He could recreate a persons body so finely people mistook it for a mirror. A master at his craft, such that studying one’s face was like a drug. He remembered a conversation- a fight, rather- with his wife a little over a year ago.
“come my dear, show me your smile. Show me those pretty eyes you have. Let me stare so that I may encapsulate yourself forever in my art.”
His wife said nothing. He grasped her hands, and locked fingers. The palm was cold and damp, her face turned away. He pressed her palm harder, and like sap from a tree when you cut it, a droplet of blinding white sweat filtered through the cracks between the finger and nail. It ran down the wrist and towards the elbow. Ignorant of the salty trail he had caused, he pressed her again.
“but darling, why should I not be allowed to appreciate you beauty?”
She looked back at him, a stare devoid of emotion.
“there are hundreds of women in this world! Of these hundreds you choose me? I am not beautiful, this pockmarked and shrivelled skin is disgusting. You are an intelligent and handsome man, it is easy for you to win the hearts of goddesses!”
“the youth of your skin is not what attracts me. You see, my dear, some statues are made with such focus, a burning focus, that you cannot tell stone from flesh. These come alive. When you know what makes a person you can remake it, stone or not!”
The craftsman smiled his mischevious grin once again. His levels rose to a triumphant climax.
“what is powerful is what makes a person. You are a special person, and I too, am special. So show me your face. Show me your pretty face.”
With this he grabbed his wifes cheeks and turned it to face himself. White tears broke through her eyes. She stared that emotionless stare again, though the slight curve of an eyebrow spoke of own troubles. Her voice was calm, but rose to another climax comparable to his own, not in volume but in intensity.
“what is powerful is what is sacred. What is purposely hidden, has a purpose. If you ever craft me I will gouge the eyes so I may not see what I am not. I will tear the mouth so I may not speak what is powerful. I will never be alive for you.”
She snatched her face out of his grip, and in his stunned silence she ran out, her white dress flowing across the floor.
The old man looked at his creation and smiled. He placed his palm against the white stone and locked his fingers together. A cold shock went through his heart, not that of a numbing pain but of a needle being dropped into the valves. With every heartbeat it would puncture the side, again, a swift stab delivered, again. He collapsed to the floor clutching his chest, his palm a ghostly white from the stone’s dust. He brushed it off on the ground, and shut his eyes tightly. Curling up on the floor, he slept and dreamt. His dream was of his work, his wife, and how he decided it must come to something useful. Pity, if it ended now, he would never fully understand…well, what was powerful.
He awoke suddenly, his mind clear and forgotten of his troubles. His eyes still shut, he got up slowly, as though a sudden movement would deprive him of this feeling. He looked up and saw nothing. An empty space where his masterpiece should’ve stood. He turned around, and saw a stone statue at his dining table, pouring out drinks as though it was like any other day.
“hh-”
The statue turned sharply and spilt some drink on the table. Still at a loss for words, the statue looked at him kindly and said, “it’s almost dinnertime. I set the table for you.”
Finding his voice once again, he struggled for words, it was beautiful, it was perfect, however, setting the table was not what he expected it to do. His pride and obsession changed to arrogance as the statue continued to set the table. It moved delicately, calm and content with every movement. Every movement was as though it was due to a purpose, something hidden, something powerful. He’d seen powerful, he’d known where he could find some like it. He’d made powerful once again, pouring his soul and dedication into this creation. This was his. His epiphany. His realisation. His real other half. His.
The statue finished setting the table, noticed the spill, and wiped it away with tisse.
“stop! What are you doing? You use the tablecloth for table spills! Tissues are for nothing but wiping lips and anuses.”
The statue stopped and turned away in shame, apparently cautious but strangely unaware of the outburst. He stood closer and leered scrutinisingly at the décor, finding else to critique on.
“this! This is a tablespoon. Tablespoons are for eating rice and accompaniments, not for drinking soup. The fork and knife should be together, as they are used together when slicing meat, are they not? And on the left side, too! It should be on the right. Yes, the right.”
He hobbled arround, adjusting each minor detail as if it was a pledge to the devil. The statue remained unfazed, as though it couldn’t care less.
“tradition. You lack tradition.” he scolded it.
“tradition is not what is important in a time like this.”
The statue spoke again. This time with a certain cold and hard tone that should befit a person with a heart of stone. It was characteristic in a descriptive manner, not insulting. He stopped and stared at the back of the statue, then quietly reflected. His voice now a shameful murmur,
“yes, I did what is wrong to find out what is right.”
“what is wrong? No. You did what you thought had to be done. I respect you for that.”
The next words the statue said were colder still, but cold like an ice cube about to melt, cold in a glass of hot white tears.
“show me your face, darling.”
The statue turned and stared directly at our craftsman. its lips curved into a smile, cracking as it did so.
“tradition. You have no tradition.”
The craftsman felt the sharp pain in his heart once again. Backing off, he grabbed a knife from the table and shouted,
“the knife should be beside the fork! It is used together when slicing meat!”
With this he plunged the knife into both his eyes, shrieking an unnatural cold laugh that only befits a person with a heart of stone. Satisfied that he was blind, slashed at his mouth, the blood streaming into his throat until the last sound he managed to utter was a feeble cough. A cough that either meant “I am weak” or “you’re missing something”.
The face of the statue moved close to the craftsman, it was like looking into a mirror. The only difference being a small white tear that broke through the tiny cracks spreading throughout its face.
“I’m going to find my wife.”
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p. says: (31 December 2008)
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