Snip. Snip. Snip.
My hands work around the ice, shavings flying everywhere. I had studied this block of ice for a full five minutes, deciding exactly where I should draw each line, each gentle, sweeping curve.
What was I sculpting?
Her.
It was always her. Can you blame me? She was magnificent. A true work of art. I pause. No, that wasn't quite right, and I adjust the ice, snipping her hair just a little differently. There.
Now, I begin a little lower, making sure to get every detail right. Each tiny button, fold, wrinkle on her chiffon dress, cut and altered to perfection. I was not created for anything less than perfect.
How odd that I should remain… this way. Imperfect. Unfinished. Outlandish.
A few more quick modifications and she is finished. I stand back, admiring what I have created. Yes, she is the vision of loveliness, a little piece of the flawlessness that is Kimberly.
This tribute, this crystal goddess is not enough, though. She doesn't have the warm pliancy of flesh, that light perfumed scent that hung in her golden hair, that pleading look in her eyes. Hold me.
"But I can't," I whisper, the words foreign on my lips. I can't look at my sculpture anymore. Instead, I totter over to the gaping hole in the roof. The snow from my creation is settling. I can see the rich lights coming from the neighborhood.
I used to feel such fear and apprehension as I gazed upon those rows of identical houses, each painted a warm and sickeningly bright color. I was not used to the… vividness of them. My whole world had been dark, grey, hushed.
But not now. Now, I'm not sure what I feel. I wasn't taught the names for these feelings. Surely there is no name for them. They are so strong, so overwhelming.
The houses are decorated for the winter celebration again. Twinkling, multicolored lights line each roof, fake, white snow stapled to their tops, decorated plants adorning every unveiled window.
That night must have been one like this. Bright, with only a few wisps of clouds in the deep blue, satin sky, the air cold enough that your own breath appears in clouds before you.
I can remember my lips forming that evil word, that word that must have offended her. Goodbye. I had not been informed of how strongly she would react. The glittering of her tears had surprised me. Had I hurt her? I could only recall tears as a response to pain. What had I done?
The Creator had always told me saying goodbye was only proper. Perhaps his information had been outdated. As I quickly thought of a suitable apology to remedy the awkward situation, something rather surprising had happened.
Her small, soft lips had pressed so sweetly against my own. I can recall my head spinning, my body becoming rigidly straight, my stomach itching in the most peculiar way.
I could feel the tears against my cold, pale skin. That sweet pressure was removed, and whispered words tickled my ears. "I love you," and she scampered away. I watched her. I vaguely remember her words from the courtyard, drifting up to reach my ears.
"He's dead," she announced. I reeled back. Why was she lying?
"They killed each other. You can go look for yourselves… see?" I couldn't quite make out what she held up for them. It made a soft, metallic clink. A prototype of my hands, perhaps?
Then it hit me. She was lying to protect me. I gently held a blade up to my lips, searching for a trace of her left on me, something to hold, to treasure. I succeeded only in slicing my face, my imitation blood stinging painfully in the wound.
And then… I found myself with a strange problem. My eyes were clouding, stinging, and my chin trembled. I felt a sort-of warmth trickle from the corners of my eyes, much like how it felt for my blood to drip from a nick of a rogue blade. Were my eyes bleeding?
I lifted the shiniest of my fingers to eye level, my own face mirrored back at me. The drops fell steadily, but they were not that bright red that had stained my hands the day my Creator died, that hue that I had wiped on my bed after Jim fell.
The droplets were clear.
I was crying.
Me. Crying.
How odd. I had never recalled crying before. Not once in all my years of solitude had I felt the urge to weep, my sorrows flowing out of me like they were now. But this girl, with her daintiness and pastel lips and eyes and breasts, had evoked in me this strange emotion.
Not knowing exactly what to do to solve this new dilemma, I had sat on the edge of my lumpy mattress, not nearly as squishy and pleasant as her's, and let the tears rain fro my eyes. After a while, they slowed, and I exhaled softly, the pressure easing off of my chest.
And in a bright flash, an epiphany dawned on me. Yes, I love you too.
My heart seemed to be clenched in someone's vice-like grip as I remembered those moments, looking out on her happy world now. I can hear music drifting on the wind now, some sort of holiday tune.
I haven't seen her for a long time now. It is painful for me to look upon her soft prettiness and know that I can't feel it again, that warmth next to my own ashen hide.
I'm much too afraid to venture outside, looking for her, so that I may soothe my growing need for her. I'm sure that the people are still not ready to see me in my unfinished state. They were so quick to turn on me, after all.
Only she remained kind.
I feel that ache within me again, and I turn away from my window to the world, back to my dusty attic, familiar, grey, and utterly alone.
Yes. I am alone.
As I will always be.
I gently raise one silver finger to my ice goddess's cheek, pretending that for once I am able to feel her tenderness beneath the steel.
She doesn't bleed.
Yes.
I will always be alone.