BADENHOP
Rowdy Rabbit
- Local time
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- 81
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Leather fingers trace across soft skin. The round of a dimpled chin, the supple apple of a cheek, the wisp of a subtle smile. The beautiful young woman smiled at him, but he couldn't smile back. He just couldn't put his finger on it. Sun spotted thumbs crest over hooded eyes, gently swiping before the soft clay mashes beneath his fingers, gliding smoothly and leaving smeared holes in his wake. "Not right." A bead of sweat dribbles down Romans face, hitting the sculpture. The wooden chair beneath him creaks as loudly as him, shoulders squaring back as he stretches his neck. Soft but worn eyes take a moment to gaze out his bedside window, the sun bringing a gentle ripple to the air around him. How long had he been at this for? He didn't remember when he had started, or how many times he had started. All he knew was that he must finish.
"You're almost there, beautiful." He coos, glancing back down to the head that rested on his loveworn desk, smeared with his previous attempts. He had begun to work on a new eye socket when the shrieking cry of a ringing phone startles him, yanking his hand through the clay, separating ear from temple. "No...no…" he cannot hear his own feeble cry beneath the persistent ringing, willing him across the room. It is hard to drag his body through the tight space, arms and legs brushing against and smearing into his nightgown. The array of faces that look down at him he does not recognize, their dripping lifeless eyes frightening.
"Hello?" The plastic of the telephone slides beneath his sweaty grip as he lifts it to his ear, breathing raggedly as he listens to the voice on the other end. "Son? I don't have a son." The woman to the left of him seems to slump, and as he reaches out to check if she is okay he flinches hard as she melts into him, poorly sculpted torso smacking into the floor. It squeaks beneath his feet as he paces, the room feeling eerily quiet. What was missing? The hum that always seemed to fill his ears had fallen silent, the room deathly still-- quiet except for the patter of melting clay, dribbling onto hardwood floor. "I need to finish." He whispers, slamming down the phone hurriedly.
They were melting, she was melting. He had to finish, he had to finish! Barren feet are slick against the wet floor, his frame crumbling back into the desk with desperation. He can hear them, not the sculptures melting and falling around him, years of hard work slipping before his eyes. It's the sirens, the footsteps, the persistent knocking at his door. "I'm not finished!" That doesn't stop the many men from coming in as hands desperately sculpt, taking the once beautiful face into a smeared, bumpy mess. Once a woman, now a monstrosity. He mashes in her nose, tears away her cheeks, swipes away her chin-- until all that's left is a pouted pair of lips, smiling, smiling at him.
"Dad, please. They're only here to help." A firm hand grasps his frail shoulder, molding into his wilting flesh. It wasn't time to leave, not yet. He wasn't finished. "Just one more thing." The gravely croak coughs past cracked lips as he takes her in his hands, and with a smile Roman kisses her goodbye. They melt together, clay slipping between tight fingers, squishing into white knuckles as he tastes the earth beneath his tongue, in his teeth, filling the cracks of peeling lips.
The hand that squeezes him pulls him away, and the woman is no more than a blob in his grip, but he still smiles as she falls to the desk. His eyes close as the medics scrabble to lift him into the stretcher, the familiar voice of a young man filling his ears all the way to the van. "Mr. Cathadine." Soft eyes peek open to bright lights, staring at unfamiliar faces. They ask him questions, many that he knows the answers to, except one.
"Who was that you were sculpting?"
"I….don't know." He smiles, relinquishing a breath as his eyes close once more, licking away the remnants of clay from his teeth. He doesn't know who he is, or where he's headed. But boy does it feel good to beat that heat.
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An agoraphobic sculptor struggling with dementia. Pushed into his home by the sudden plague of covid, it has been decades since Roman lost his wife and his muse. He has dedicated his time to sculpting his wife, so that he may not forget her beauty. It's a terribly hot August day when the conditioning goes out and the clay begins to melt, he must say his goodbyes.
(( Made last minute. I hope you enjoy : ). )
"You're almost there, beautiful." He coos, glancing back down to the head that rested on his loveworn desk, smeared with his previous attempts. He had begun to work on a new eye socket when the shrieking cry of a ringing phone startles him, yanking his hand through the clay, separating ear from temple. "No...no…" he cannot hear his own feeble cry beneath the persistent ringing, willing him across the room. It is hard to drag his body through the tight space, arms and legs brushing against and smearing into his nightgown. The array of faces that look down at him he does not recognize, their dripping lifeless eyes frightening.
"Hello?" The plastic of the telephone slides beneath his sweaty grip as he lifts it to his ear, breathing raggedly as he listens to the voice on the other end. "Son? I don't have a son." The woman to the left of him seems to slump, and as he reaches out to check if she is okay he flinches hard as she melts into him, poorly sculpted torso smacking into the floor. It squeaks beneath his feet as he paces, the room feeling eerily quiet. What was missing? The hum that always seemed to fill his ears had fallen silent, the room deathly still-- quiet except for the patter of melting clay, dribbling onto hardwood floor. "I need to finish." He whispers, slamming down the phone hurriedly.
They were melting, she was melting. He had to finish, he had to finish! Barren feet are slick against the wet floor, his frame crumbling back into the desk with desperation. He can hear them, not the sculptures melting and falling around him, years of hard work slipping before his eyes. It's the sirens, the footsteps, the persistent knocking at his door. "I'm not finished!" That doesn't stop the many men from coming in as hands desperately sculpt, taking the once beautiful face into a smeared, bumpy mess. Once a woman, now a monstrosity. He mashes in her nose, tears away her cheeks, swipes away her chin-- until all that's left is a pouted pair of lips, smiling, smiling at him.
"Dad, please. They're only here to help." A firm hand grasps his frail shoulder, molding into his wilting flesh. It wasn't time to leave, not yet. He wasn't finished. "Just one more thing." The gravely croak coughs past cracked lips as he takes her in his hands, and with a smile Roman kisses her goodbye. They melt together, clay slipping between tight fingers, squishing into white knuckles as he tastes the earth beneath his tongue, in his teeth, filling the cracks of peeling lips.
The hand that squeezes him pulls him away, and the woman is no more than a blob in his grip, but he still smiles as she falls to the desk. His eyes close as the medics scrabble to lift him into the stretcher, the familiar voice of a young man filling his ears all the way to the van. "Mr. Cathadine." Soft eyes peek open to bright lights, staring at unfamiliar faces. They ask him questions, many that he knows the answers to, except one.
"Who was that you were sculpting?"
"I….don't know." He smiles, relinquishing a breath as his eyes close once more, licking away the remnants of clay from his teeth. He doesn't know who he is, or where he's headed. But boy does it feel good to beat that heat.
------------------------------------------
An agoraphobic sculptor struggling with dementia. Pushed into his home by the sudden plague of covid, it has been decades since Roman lost his wife and his muse. He has dedicated his time to sculpting his wife, so that he may not forget her beauty. It's a terribly hot August day when the conditioning goes out and the clay begins to melt, he must say his goodbyes.
(( Made last minute. I hope you enjoy : ). )
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