Pygmalion
It was a sculpture. One like all the others in the gallery. Except it wasn't. it was exceptional. The exception. The one without faults. The one that drew you in like a moth to the flame without you realising before you were already going up in smoke, the tendrils curling around your soul and twisting. They tightened and twined with each other, curling around like lions in a pride. You were enraptured, captured, and more importantly, captive, in the embrace of this mere sculpture. It was a paradox of poor clothing and perfect posture, of a friendly smile and polite manners. It gave comfortable familiarity and somehow conveyed distant aloofness. The mixed signals dazed and confused you, and made you all the more fascinated about this statue. That word, statue. It does not define the beauty of this artwork, the mere exquisiteness of this being sent by the gods to grace the earth with its presence. This statue is more than that. It is simply beautiful.
But you look closer, and you see the rot that permeates it. The dark and slimy and oily feeling it gives to everyone but you. You see the wickedness behind the sunshine smile. The timelessness of the hair, the hair that now does not fit with the youthful face. You see the cheekbones that have become knives that cut with the raggedness of a serrated knife, and the once devastating eyes become dark holes that you cannot, will not, look away from. The perfect posture becomes dominating, overpowering and capturing and captivating everyone that looks. And he's perfect. And he's captivating. And he's so, so bad. When he runs, you do not follow. Because the angel always hides a demon, and once the light is peeled away, the darkness will swallow you whole. If you don't run first.
