Fantasy flash fic #8: Pygmalion Revisited

Every night you sit down at my feet. Your hands stroke my toes, as you talk to me about your day.

I cannot stroke the curls that rest against my knees. My hands are caught by my side, where you sculpted them, roughly, compared to the time and fine tools you used for my face and torso.

Love, you call it, the tenderness you bestow upon my stone body and the words you wind around my still mind.

I woke like this, to warm words and warm hands, sinking into flesh with prayers and wishful thinking. I began to feel like this, to see. Even stone can grown soft as flesh after many such moments.

One day, I move, a toe twitching, hand finding your hair. You help me make a step, find me clothes. We celebrate with wine and little kisses.

The summer air melting like butter upon every inch of my skin intoxicates. The breeze brushing tiny hairs on my arms and face invigorates. The springy grass beneath my feet as I walk out, even the unshifting stones, inspires a dance and a clap.

But you cut me off, clasping my arm, whispering, “I dreamed of this,” kissing again, and stroking all over, and I glory in each sensation.

Until you lift my skirt and dip down between my legs. It itches. It hurts. I retrieve your hand and put it on my head, where stroking feels good. You put it between my legs again and I use force to push my body away.

I look into your eyes. This is not love, but desire.

My first word as a person is “No.”

You argue I am but a statue, an animate body.

I have no words to tell you I heard you speak before I felt your hands, I had a soul before my body unfroze. I received your every word and I wished to reciprocrate.

Except you do not listen as I have. You do not stand still while I move.

So my second word is “stop” and my third word is “I” and my fourth word is drowned out by your yelling.

You made me, you say. You loved me, you say. You wished for me to move, you say, to live. My body enchanted you.

But… I live and I feel and perhaps I could even love… but…

I swallow.

You wish for me, you conclude, to be your lover. To serve you, to feel you, to sate you.

I can’t, because though my body has been softened and ensouled, it is not like your flesh.

I can love you. I cannot desire you.

When you advance, I set the toes and heels you stroked into soft earth and feel it bounce, and again. It supports me and pulls at me and I turn on it, the breeze not just tickling me, but teaching me of leaf and flower. My mouth waters. I wish to know more.

The a world awaits and I feel its pull.

Your fingers brush my shoulders, reach to catch me and keep me still, as I have been, so I duck from beneath them and let the summer breeze carry me away, my hands free from my sides and my feet jumping, stomping, going.

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Posted on July 30, 2015, in Creative writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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