The Sovereign of Space
He is calling me perfection again. I, on the other hand, watch my creator slowly crumble and disintegrate, as only putrid flesh can do. His chisel has lain fallow for years now, next to the last block of marble. His hand rasps dryly over my unflinching surface, as he cackles to me, “You are my ultimate triumph, boy.” I register mild disgust at his fawning, but soon he is silent and both of us know peace.
Orderly people arrive and spend time poking and examining. They remove him. Finally they lift me and clean me. They bring me to the lord of the estate. He looks stern and distracted. He clips his words as he asks wherever on earth they found me. As he nears me for a better look, there is a sudden flurry in the hall. Accustomed as I am to greys and browns and the old man’s stale plates of food, I am taken aback by the rush of silky color.
“Oh, darling, what have you found for me now, a statue?” A petite head of ringlets bounces at the lord. “He looks like a dream. Perfect for the West Terrace. I shall have my tea with him every morning while I gaze at the water. He will keep my secrets better than I myself do,” her voice tinkles lightly as she places her flushed cheek against my shoulder. Awkward, uncomfortable sensations arise in me, but my countenance remains impassive as ever.
