25
Wine is in his hands and the cloud of his breath. Pray, “Bacchus? Show me how to be merry, to spin in circles like your Maenads, drink the fruits of the earth, and sing the songs of the wind.” Watch the man as he stumbles, a puppet of his own drink, and close your eyes as he faints to the floor.
40
Whisper yet another prayer, “Vulcan feel the fires of my heart. I am a creature of the earth crafted from her crumbs. Please bring me the breath she poured into you. Let me, too, craft with my own hands and sweat in the heat of my labor.” He knows what it is to be taken advantage of and used. Perhaps he will have mercy.
86
After countless moons of his tongue leaving wet streaks on your numb lips, realize that there is always another option. Whisper to Pluto, “Give me an eternity in your kingdom of death.” Hope that, if no god will give you life, at least they might let you fall into the jaws of the Underworld and wander Asphodel. Pray that Thanatos will take you now and be done.
190
Send your pleas once more with the wind and its messenger, “Mercury, hear my plea. Take it to all the gods.” Envy his speed and wit and wile. Oh, to run on the air as he does. To roll down a hill of soft clouds. To be able to speak and to laugh and to be free, if only to serve the words of the gods.
300
See the man enter the room and fold your consciousness into itself until it is nothing but a whisper.
332
After more suns and moons of steady crafting than you can count, the man does not appear one morning. Wait for hours, wondering why. You don’t mind waiting. Waiting is a respite.
Without warning, a thudding creeps into the depths of your body and spreads to the bounds of your figure, a dull pulse in the empty hole of your ear canal. As the pulses grow stronger, a buzzing hum pierces your head and suddenly the air is awake. Sound filters in all at once from all directions like drowning and flying and nothing and everything in between. Hear the air that trickles across the surface of the earth and the breath of Venus as she gives you life.
Marble melts and softens into flesh. Its remainders flake to the ground like an empty serpent’s skin. Feel the searing of the sun on your side and the ice of your pedestal under new flesh. Your chest rises and falls with breath, and blood snakes through your veins. Touch your throat and hum a fragile noise. As your heart races, feel your mind explode with potential.
Before you can collect your newfound senses, hear a rhythmic pouding and smell something ripe and salty. The man enters the room and a warm flutter of fear flickers in your chest. He freezes like the statue you had been only minutes before. He throws himself at you, professing love and faith and all manner of horrors you never wanted to hear.
With his skin sticking to yours, reeking that awful odor, pray once more.
“Minerva, give me your wisdom. Show me how to unweave myself from the tapestry of his fate. Let me run free.”
As you continue to stand stock still, notice the tools that hang on the wall. After months of staring at nothing but them and their owner, they became invisible to your eyes. But now, with soft flesh tangled in your own, notice their blades.
As you formulate a strategy, think, “Mars give strength. Let me wield a mighty sword and wage wars in my own defense.”
With the hand the man—Pygmalion—has not pinned in his vile embrace, quietly pull the sharpest looking pick from the wall.
Listen to the blood rushing through his veins like a river.
Smile and know that you have already won.