Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I should leave. The sane thing to do. Walk away. Do not unpack what doesn’t need to be unpacked but doing so means I don’t get answers. I just didn’t realize the answers would be as painful as this, or that I’d want to comfort her instead of rage and yell.
It’s after hours, and a few students are still in the studio next door. This one’s empty. I quietly walk over to the door and flip the lock, drop the hammer on the table next to the door and don’t stop walking until I’m right in front of her, directly underneath the light illuminating her project. Just another project involving me, like the ghost of me before, this is apparently the prince of me in the present.
She takes a step back until she’s pressed against the table. I open my mouth and look down at the damn frog with my tattoo on it like she accidentally etched it in, at this rate she’s going to accidentally shape my face instead of the damned amphibian’s.
Her hands really are her truth, while her words can’t be trusted. Maybe that’s my answer. I hold up my hand then walk over and grab a brand-new slab of clay; I use the string to cut it down to size then carry it over to her.
I stare at the damn frog.
"You went to the funeral?"
Her breath catches.
I don't wait for an answer.
Instead, I walk over to the empty workstation beside hers and slam the clay down onto the banding wheel.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"You said you thought I was dead," I snap. With the first cut, clay hits the table with a wet thud. “You thought I was buried.” I slice the block in half with the wire. "You thought I hated you." Another cut down the middle to the second piece, another slice. Clay falls apart beneath my hands as I move it to where I want it. “Show me.”
"What?" She frowns. “I don’t understand, I—"
With dirty hands I cup her by the face, my fingers digging into her skin gently. “The funeral, show it to me. I want to see. I want you touching,” I lick my lips. “I want you molding. I want you showing me your truth since you’re incapable of using your words, since I’m incapable of trusting anything that comes out of your mouth. You haven’t earned that sort of trust from me, you might not ever, but this,” I grip her by the chin and use my left hand to point at the clay. “This is your truth. From every sculpture I’ve seen, you’ve shown a story right down to the one about me, so this I’ll trust. This is going to be how we communicate. Got it?”
Silence ensues. Her eyes go from calm to panicked in seconds. She’s afraid. Good. Let her feel fear. That seems to be the only thing that pulls the truth from her.
“Jude, wait, I think—”
“You’re not allowed.” I shrug. “You want my forgiveness? You want restitution? You want to settle this shit with the devil? Fine, then you confess your sins with your hands. That’s our deal. That’s how you find peace, Lilah.”
I grab another piece of clay. “Show me.”
Her eyes narrow. “You sound crazy.”
"Probably, so why do you look petrified?" I shrug. “Besides, prison does that to a person, makes them a bit crazy, a bit unhinged, we only get four walls, just in case you were wondering, and for the first few weeks I had exactly one book, and one podcast I could listen to, care to wonder what that was?”
Tears fill her eyes.
“Nope, I won’t feel sorry for you, suck those tears back in and move.” I shove her gently toward the clay. “Create, and maybe I’ll start to forgive. get dirty, Dig in, and maybe…you’ll finally feel clean. I want to see it." My voice lowers. "I want to see what you remember."
The room goes quiet as I slowly turn her toward the chair and urge her to sit. “I want to feel what you remember. Give me the pain.” I lift her hands onto the clay. “Give me the horror of what you saw.” I rest my hands on top of hers and whisper, dangerously close to her neck, so close I can almost graze my mouth along the vulnerable skin there. “Tell me a story.”
I move behind her before I can stop myself. Before I can think better of it. Because it’s not just her story, it’s my story too, I’m part of this whether I like it or not. I’m torn between wanting her to suffer and feel her pain but also wanting to be the one person she shows it to. I want her mask to slip, and I want to be the one to see it all. I want to look her in the eyes and drink her in despite how naked she feels for it.