Figura

He sits still, but his lips haven't stopped forming words.

The breath barely escapes his lips; his voice is too quiet for anyone else to hear.

He whispers -- just barely -- the words that he has memorized.

The room stirs around him. Slanting and shifting with every syllable.

No one has come upstairs to find him yet, and no one dares interrupt his work.

His eyes open, and he tastes the room rather than sees it.

His body lurches forward as if pulled by strings, and his hands reach out, his fingers spread.

He collides with his workbench, and his eyes roll back into his head and his hands begin the tedious task: carving, painting.

The circular room spins, but no one exists to see it.

The windows seal themselves, the floor rattles.

His hands work at an impossible speed, trying to keep up with the visions in his mind.

A lizard--no, a woman--her skin scaled, her head round and smooth, and hands, feet with claws, beady yellow eyes and a stubborn jaw. Lips, eyebrows scrunched, a stomach that aches for a meal. And nostrils--flared with anger, a ring on three of her fingers, legs with muscles ripe for running. Intestines, liver, a sore heart, lungs--breath.

Everything stops.

The silence screams to be heard.

He opens his eyes, cradles the figure in his hand: a freshly carved woman, a lizard, a being. Identical to what he saw in his mind.

He stands, the world steady now, and adds her to his collection.