Muse

I wonder what the marble [[sees]].

I wonder what is left when the [[chisel]] pulls away.

But I know what my muse sees. My beautiful muse. [[Laurent]]

The marble is beside me. Towering, imposing. But I am coaxing something [[contemplative]] out of it.

I must teach it who it is. [[Begin with the eyes]] [[Begin with the torso]] [[Begin with the legs]]

This where the marble breathes. Where a stone heart pumps stone [[blood]].

You can tell who a person will be from the way they look at you. But they reveal even more if they only [[look]] away.

Posture makes the man--a strong stance, indeed. One's self worth is reflected by how they [[stand]].

This Laurent will meet no-ones gaze. I coax from the stone a solemn Laurent. A Laurent content with the company of his own mind. [[Carve]]

The chisel comes down in clean, confident blows. Laurent of flesh and blood looks to his feet as I work; he is holding his breath. He doesn't need to, but I don't stop him. [[Keep carving]] [[...]]

This Laurent will breathe slow, but strong. A heart steady but sure. A Laurent who rests and thinks. [[Carve]]

But not for Laurent. Laurent sits, hands on his head, in silent meditation. [[Carve]]

The soft stone begins to take shape. Is this how Laurent sees himself? How I see him? Or something else entirely? [[Keep carving | continue carving]] [[...? ->...]]

Something else is here. A sound. Barely there. A [[sound]].

Yes, that's it. A sound. Sound in the silence of the workshop. [[Plip plop]]

My focus is pulled away from me violently. I can ignore it no longer. A great, fat droplet of water has bombed me from above. [[Look up ->Plip plop]]

There is a leak in the roof of the workshop. It has been there for a number of days now, and it has begun to [[rain]].

The droplets become a steady stream. Soon the marble man before me is drowned, and every fold of his stone musculature becomes a bed for a small river. [[Check on Laurent]]

Laurent was never designed to be drowned. I orient myself around the unfinished base of the marble. The stone here is rough and uncarved--awkward to move with no hand-holds. [[Push]] [[Rock]]

I had instructed my muse to stand impossibly still--to never move. In this task he was extraordinary. But it seems he has forsaken his post; his carefully positioned figure now droops to the side in [[macabre]] leisure.

I approach Laurent. The humidity of the flooding studio has been horrible on his conservation. Such careful measures I took. I wished for Laurent to be beautiful [[forever]].

There was a burning in my heart. Now the flame slowy dies as I sit and watch this limp, ugly thing melt. It is like a betreyal. [[Move the body]]

Water has soaked into its clothes. The thing is like a grotesque lump. I wrap my arms around the space between the shoulders and limbs and lift. [[Drag it outside]] [[Drag it into a backroom]]

The rain hits me in full force, and soon I am as drowned as the thing in my arms. The night is warm and sour, and the smell of rot permeates the air. [[Pull]]

Each pull seems harder than the last. It is like it now refuses to listen. Once you were so willing. [[Beneath the floorboards]]

Its legs are sinking into the mud outside the workshop. It won't stop digging its heels into the ground. It's trying to stop me. [[Don't let it]]

I'm so close now. Free of my forsaken muse. [[Load it into the car]]

I open the trunk of the little red sedan and dump it in. Drive. Drive far, [[far away]]. Or even [[farther]].

Every sudden turn prompts a dreadful lurch from behind me. But the dam appears to grow in size around every winding corner. Closer now. [[Stop]]

Here we are. So far down. [[Never]] to be found.

[[... | next]]

I know now what my muse sees. My faithless [[muse]].

Nothing at all.

The workshop is so old. In such [[shambles]].

I rip up the floorboards in the room behind the marble. The water has seeped into rotten subframe. [[Dump it]]

I watch it fall limply below--sinking slowly into the muck. [[... | a sound]]

Something else [[... | entirely]]

I hear a wailing in the distance growing ever closer. The whine of weak engines. The croak of muddied voices. [[Run]] [[Hide]]

I attempt an escape from the backroom. They would never understand. But they've already made it [[inside]].

I make the plunge into the sodden ground beside my muse. And I cover the hole in the few [[moments]] that remain.

I don't hear what they say. I only watch them gasp and cover their mouths and noses. I knew they'd never [[understand]].

The beauty of what could have been.

I cannot call for help. But I am slowly sinking. Sinking into the tomb of [[Laurent | sorry]].

It is our tomb now.

The towns go by my rain-spotted window. They all blend together after a while. Untill [[... | more sound]]

I hear a wailing in the distance growing ever closer. The whine of weak engines. I've gone so far, I can't [[stop]] now.

I watch a sea of red and blue crest the hill before me. A tidal wave of [[inevitability]].

I go until I know there is no place left.