“I hate myself for doing that. More so, I started to hate all men. All I see in their eyes is hunger. They long to take. Do you see my dilemma? I’m finished here. I long to die, I dream about dying. Even if you’re not waiting for me on the other side, at least I can get rid of my emptiness. I feel completely drained and wonder how it could get any worse and then it does. The emptiness squeezes a little tighter. A little tighter. Threatening to choke me but mercilessly pushing me through to one more day.

“You’re the first good work I’ve done since you.… I can’t. I can’t do this. I’m going crazy, this is where the emptiness leads. If only I could forget the present. Do you want to make out? I haven’t had sex in so long. Come on, I’m dying for a kiss. I can’t stand here looking at you naked. It’s the first time I’ve felt like this since we last.…” The sculptor got up from the chair and crossed to the statue.

“I’d take you back. Sick and dying, puking and shitting. All of it. I’d rather have you even in that awful state than be here alone. I don’t get satisfaction from anything. Food is tiresome, conversation could lead to a shooting spree, and sex with anyone but you is vile and repulsive. How can I be so twisted and empty, and you stand there so, so fucking beautiful? Won’t you look at me? Nic, just look at me, just for one instant, just so I know some part of you is still out there. Beyond my memories and our old acrid bed you must exist. Why won’t you look at me?”

Dropping to his knees, he wrapped his arms around the statue’s waist. He placed his forehead on its hipbone and rocked there, back and forth, murmuring to himself. The thoughts were coming in fragments now and he raced to keep up to their pattern. “Smell of… alive… in America… lick here… still damp… can’t listen anymore… all I ever did… clay… look, please… salt… once more… over my shoulder?”

The sculptor slowly turned over his left shoulder and followed the gaze of the statue. On a low table was the mold for the head of Christ from the crucifix he had fashioned for the monastery over a year prior. Letting go of the statue’s waist, he crawled over to the table. Taking in his arms the face mold, he peered at the inverted image of the Savior.