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The Hands of an Artist
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Hands are so beautiful. I believe they are the most beautiful part of the body. The brightest eyes or the softest breasts cannot begin to compete with the beauty of a hand. They are so.complete. So simple, yet so complex. Five little digits, four fingers and a thumb. With these a person can accomplish anything, build anything. Or tear it all down.
Hands fascinate me. The nails, so smooth and yet so sturdy. Each joint is placed a little different from the others, yet they produce a grip more flexible and accurate than any machine. All the fine lines across the palm, interacting with each other in the process of bending, clasping and grasping. The tiny pattern on the tip of a finger, unique for every man, woman and child. Silky smooth skin, soft with blood as I carefully peel it away across the knuckles.
A single woman, a single hand. She hangs suspended in the air, her limbs held in place by four intricate suppression fields. An arcane device to my left lets me control the fields, to rotate and turn her to my wishes. The woman, a young member of our craftworld kin, has an almost carnal panic in her eyes as she stares at her left arm, stretched out in front of her. Muscles bulge as she tries to control her limb. A small container is inserted into her neck, supplying her with various drugs designed to keep her alert and conscious.
The alcoves above me are filled with silent Eldar. The most favoured warriors of the cabal have been allowed entrance to the lordly theatre tonight. On a great throne sits Lord Malevolence himself, surrounded by his personal bodyguard and his closest advisors. He watches me with a bored face, every now and again turning his attention to a bowl of eyes to have a quick snack. The Lord laughed in ridicule when I announced what I intended to show them here tonight. A single woman, a single hand. No other creatures would be brought in, no other body parts would be touched. Let him laugh. In two hours I will have him crying in sympathy for this woman.
Had I had a say, I would not have been here tonight. I do not enjoy these public exhibitions. They are so.stiff. You are expected to follow the rules of convention and tradition. Even with such a controversial performance as this, there are some things that just have to be included. The blood. The screams. And the death. There has to be a death at the end. These aesthetic illiterates can only understand death, as if it was the final and ultimate form of pain. Such a waste. A pain such as this should be cultivated, left to mature over years and years of careful attendance. Oh, well. You must be a crowd pleaser. I guess that some things can never be properly transferred to the public scene. With an audience watching, you loose the intimacy between yourself and your subject.
Intimacy. This enclosed sub-reality, containing only you, her, and the pain. You become her everything. Her entire world. Every word she speaks, every breath she takes, every thought she thinks, is you. Every tear she cries and every drop she bleeds, is you. Together you can share the perfected quintessence of pain. No blood. No screams. Just a single, naked nerve, speaking in a secret language which only the two of you know. Such passion is nothing that these brutes can understand or appreciate.
As I absentmindedly separate a vein from the flesh between her thumb and index finger, I stare into the woman's deep, brown eyes. What beauty I could have showed you. What things we could have shared. What you could have become.
What a breath-taking grotesque you would have made.
Hands are so beautiful. I believe they are the most beautiful part of the body. The brightest eyes or the softest breasts cannot begin to compete with the beauty of a hand. They are so.complete. So simple, yet so complex. Five little digits, four fingers and a thumb. With these a person can accomplish anything, build anything. Or tear it all down.
Hands fascinate me. The nails, so smooth and yet so sturdy. Each joint is placed a little different from the others, yet they produce a grip more flexible and accurate than any machine. All the fine lines across the palm, interacting with each other in the process of bending, clasping and grasping. The tiny pattern on the tip of a finger, unique for every man, woman and child. Silky smooth skin, soft with blood as I carefully peel it away across the knuckles.
A single woman, a single hand. She hangs suspended in the air, her limbs held in place by four intricate suppression fields. An arcane device to my left lets me control the fields, to rotate and turn her to my wishes. The woman, a young member of our craftworld kin, has an almost carnal panic in her eyes as she stares at her left arm, stretched out in front of her. Muscles bulge as she tries to control her limb. A small container is inserted into her neck, supplying her with various drugs designed to keep her alert and conscious.
The alcoves above me are filled with silent Eldar. The most favoured warriors of the cabal have been allowed entrance to the lordly theatre tonight. On a great throne sits Lord Malevolence himself, surrounded by his personal bodyguard and his closest advisors. He watches me with a bored face, every now and again turning his attention to a bowl of eyes to have a quick snack. The Lord laughed in ridicule when I announced what I intended to show them here tonight. A single woman, a single hand. No other creatures would be brought in, no other body parts would be touched. Let him laugh. In two hours I will have him crying in sympathy for this woman.
Had I had a say, I would not have been here tonight. I do not enjoy these public exhibitions. They are so.stiff. You are expected to follow the rules of convention and tradition. Even with such a controversial performance as this, there are some things that just have to be included. The blood. The screams. And the death. There has to be a death at the end. These aesthetic illiterates can only understand death, as if it was the final and ultimate form of pain. Such a waste. A pain such as this should be cultivated, left to mature over years and years of careful attendance. Oh, well. You must be a crowd pleaser. I guess that some things can never be properly transferred to the public scene. With an audience watching, you loose the intimacy between yourself and your subject.
Intimacy. This enclosed sub-reality, containing only you, her, and the pain. You become her everything. Her entire world. Every word she speaks, every breath she takes, every thought she thinks, is you. Every tear she cries and every drop she bleeds, is you. Together you can share the perfected quintessence of pain. No blood. No screams. Just a single, naked nerve, speaking in a secret language which only the two of you know. Such passion is nothing that these brutes can understand or appreciate.
As I absentmindedly separate a vein from the flesh between her thumb and index finger, I stare into the woman's deep, brown eyes. What beauty I could have showed you. What things we could have shared. What you could have become.
What a breath-taking grotesque you would have made.