“Ridiculous,” Marcus whispered and backed away from the statue, which only stared back at a place just over his left shoulder. Why had he created such a thing? It was not his intent when he had begun. Was he subconsciously really that lonely? Did normal people do this? Maybe his eyes were just playing tricks on him. When he looked back, what he saw was infallible. There was no argument as to who was standing frozen in his loft.

If there were a time to destroy, it would be now. Before a mold was constructed, before the wax took its shape, before any bronze was heated. Before there was an opportunity to immortalize him. “Not him. It,” the sculptor reminded himself and left his studio, turning off the light.

To Sleep Perchance…

THE SCULPTOR pulled back the sheets and climbed into his bed, habitually grabbing the extra pillow and pulling it into his embrace. It smelled of sickness but also, in just the right places, of Nic. He couldn’t bring himself to wash it. Not yet, it was still too soon. If he washed it, he feared he’d lose forever the visions that flooded his mind when he pulled it close like this. Breathe deeply of him but not too much. Save some for tomorrow. Every day the scent grew a little fainter, a little farther away.

At least the nightmares had subsided. For the first six months, the sculptor dreamed almost nightly that it was all a mistake, Nic was still here and they had buried him alive. He’d hear nails scratching on the coffin and feel the pressure of dirt on his chest. In an instant he was being buried with Nic, the musty smell of dirt filling his lungs and grains of mud scratching his eyeballs. Not now, it’s not time. He’d wake up with bunches of bedsheets balled in his fists and with cramps in his legs, straining to free himself and his lover from the phantom coffin.