Once Upon a Story [ INCONSISTENT UPDATES ]

The Sculptor

Trigger Warning
This story discusses the concept of mortality.

❝ [𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴] 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘰 ❞

Word count: 1725

— 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 ⛏️ ❞

They lived in a sunlit room, a greenhouse filled with blocks of marble and granite piled high or dumped in lone corners. Everywhere you looked, remnants of their art took over, leaving winding passages to navigate the already cramped space. It was their work environment, high in entropy, gathering dust with each completed work.

Holding a chisel in their shaky hand, they carved minute details from the rock. They worked robotically, rhythmically chipping piece after piece of stone. The bust was nearly complete. Their inspiration lay in a superior realm, a heavenly domain of fiction and heroic stories. Bearing tales of grandiosity, the Olympians were mighty, yet no different from the humans who revered them, revelling in sin.

That is what they aspired to create: a figure so passionate its legacy would prevail further than the mythology from which it came.

"Do I wish to be as grand as my creator? Never. Nor can it be so." They admired their calloused hands, covered in white. "I embrace my mortality and thank its pressure for moulding my diamond-like devotion. Unbreakable by any means but myself."

As they inhaled a heavy breath, a dastardly cough followed, one dry and deep from their bronchi. The air in the greenhouse was hot, arid, and filled with sediment. They stood from their stool and took shallow breaths, feeling pins and needles slide down their throat.

They often thought their lungs would flip inside out from their trachea but never bothered picking up the mask beside them. Even as their eyes blurred with tears, irritated by the constant smog, they remained exposed to the elements.

As the clock struck, sounding the second hour past noon, they dropped their tools. Walking out of the plantless terrarium, they showered and changed into fresh clothes. They had an appointment at a clinic and would hate to be late. The receptionist greeted them at entry and ushered them to their usual room: C110.

Opening the door, the smell of cleaner wafted toward them. They smacked their lips together, tasting the bleach floating in the air.

"How peculiar," they whispered. "You don't usually clean your office before my appointment."

"A detail I failed to mention to the new janitor before he started. If it overwhelms you, we can always change rooms."

"That's alright." Laying on the lounging chair, they found the grooves of their previous visits and made themselves comfortable. "I'll manage."