I descend into the basement where my laboratory is hidden from prying human eyes. With ease i climb down the dark steps, not bothering with the lights just yet. This room is as familiar as my right hand. I walk with measured steps, counting in my head.
One, two, three.
I extend my hand and feel under the table for my usual seat. The cold metal greets my palm and deftly, I pull it out and balance my sagging bottom on it. The chair winces in protest, a rebuke that I should lay off raspberry jam doughnuts.
I clap twice and a dim glow begins to grow from one part of the room, slowly spreading across. I wait for it to get brighter patiently. It does take while sometimes. I drum fat fingers on my work table, humming under my breath, a song from a movie I must have seen ages ago.
The light intensity becomes constant and I decide the room has become as bright as it can get.
The light though poor, reveals the basement to be small space, my desk and seat in the middle, surrounded by stacks of haphazardly piled bodies on black walls. The bodies cast eerie shadows on the walls.
Lifeless, some deformed. I see a few that do not even look remotely human.
I sigh at the dreary view that is my workshop, my lab.
Playing God sure is harder than imagined. I chew on a nail, eyes unfocused as I allow my mind wonder about how God himself managed to make the universe in 7 days. It almost feels like I have worked on my creations for a millennium.
I get up reluctantly from my seat; work must be done. I have stalled enough.
I waddle around, staring closely at my experiments.
Which to continue? Which should be disposed of?
I pull out a few corpses hidden under the debris, tutting and dropping back down in disappointment. I poke at some, staring sadly at my uncompleted mess. A body with a somewhat colourful dress draws my eyes and I walk over to it. It is female, almost fresh. The smell of decay isn't on her. Then again, how can I tell? I have long lost my sense of smell of the rot that is my second home. From the looks I draw from the outside world, I probably smell of decay too.
Ah what the hell.
I drag what looks like an old shrunken man (or a baby?) off and I lift her body carefully. These corpses are precious. I carry her like a new bride to my altar (cluttered desk really). Who knows, if I manage to get her right, she might just be a good bride.
My own Frankenstein. Frankensteina?
I can only pray for a Mary Shelley moment.
Dropping her carefully on the table, I reach underneath and pull out a black box. Slowly, I begin laying out my equipment of creation. Once again, I let my mind wonder at how lucky God must be to be Himself.
Words are His weapons.
I stare dismally at the pots of colours and brushes; these are my own weapons.
Sometimes, I feel like such a fraud.
No time for a soliloquy; work to be done.
I view my subject in perspective like a fine artist would or a photographer.
This is an art too, trust me.
I turn my neck sideways and crack my knuckles. I mumble unintelligently to myself; again another reminder of my humanity- depending on encouragement to begin.
Let's get busy.
I close my eyes, gathering the darkness under my eyelids.
I open them slowly, and study the corpse.
Too much hair on her head. What had I been thinking when I first gave her this shaggy mane?
I pick up my small scissors.
The sound of sharp blades kissing each other tickles the room softly. Black tufts of hair float like feathers around me, landing daintily on my desk and floor. Satisfied, I drop my scissors and step back.
I look at her skin; Too pale.
How dark do I want her? I ruminate on the question for several minutes, brown teeth gnawing relentlessly at my cracked lips.
Ah, what the hell.
I pick up one of the many small pots on the desk and with a brush, I begin to paint her skin.
Nonchalantly perhaps, considering how uneven the skin tone is. I will sort that out soon.
Poco a poco.
After my first application, I step back and give my specimen a once over.
I pick up another pot and get back to work, this time, taking my time. Reality fades, my concentration totally swallowed by the being I am attempting to enliven.
Silence, asides the clatter of brush as it hits the pot, is my only companion and what a wonderful partner she makes. My fingers expertly apply colour with unusual, effortless grace for digits their size. They work quickly and when the last part of the skin is covered, I stop momentarily, wincing as I try to stand upright. My spine complains as it tries to correct my posture.
She looks asleep.
It might be my imagination but I almost think I saw her eyelashes flutter a little.
That is an improvement.
I rub stained hands on my baggy shirt, swapping colours.
Suddenly, my hand hits at a pot in a fit of clumsiness, spilling its colour on a part of the skin. I groan in anger, slapping my head furiously. I drop my brush and pick up a piece of cloth, attempting to dab the stain off but end up making an unsightly smear.
I pound the desk in frustration, causing my equipment to jump, as if startled.
I would have to wash out all off and start again.
I sigh and allow my bulky self to sag into my seat.
I truly suck at this creation business.
Ah forget it.
I get up and savagely lift the corpse, throwing her back in the pile.
She would have to be for another day.
I walk back to my desk and clear away the mess, cleaning and wiping. Satisfied to an extent, I give my desk one last look before I clap my hand and plunge my lab into darkness. I walk with my usual measured steps.
One, two, three.
Base of the stairs.
I walk up, opening the door to let myself out.
Another day, another attempt at writing.
My laboratory, a room in my mind.
My corpses, unfinished stories.
My poor colours, meager words. Read more ...