A small horror drabble.
Written sometime in April 2013, based on this picture.
You, are special. I trace the lines of the jaw, every line and every contour. I feel its tiny hairs of skin move and quiver, as if receiving my touch for the first time. I see the healthy shade priming those healthy cheeks, uplifted corners of the rosy lips, and the bright eyes burning with life.
The eyes. Window to your soul. The shell that were once near empty, losing grip, now tucked full to its brim. Sunken cheeks became filled, ashen skin become bright. Truly, there is not a better gift than being alive. But giving one, that is just so much better. Thank you, I mused to myself, as the reflection in the mirror gazes back just as amused. If your owner did not want to live, to squander what he has, let not the beautiful sculpture be wasted.
"Can I have your face?"
You, are special. I trace the lines of the jaw, every line and every contour. I feel its tiny hairs of skin move and quiver, as if receiving my touch for the first time. I see the healthy shade priming those healthy cheeks, uplifted corners of the rosy lips, and the bright eyes burning with life.
The eyes. Window to your soul. The shell that were once near empty, losing grip, now tucked full to its brim. Sunken cheeks became filled, ashen skin become bright. Truly, there is not a better gift than being alive. But giving one, that is just so much better. Thank you, I mused to myself, as the reflection in the mirror gazes back just as amused. If your owner did not want to live, to squander what he has, let not the beautiful sculpture be wasted.
"Can I have your face?"