When my subject's eyes start to glaze over, it is at that precise moment that I can discern the onset of their transcendence. Their bodies relinquish all tension before succumbing to rigor mortis in a few hours hence. In such moments, I find myself pondering the enigmatic realm that lies beyond their physical existence, yearning to experience the unfathomable.

  I am ceaselessly preoccupied with the prospect of my own eventual immortalization, my essence suspended in an eternal stasis. I am convinced that my time is approaching, thus compelling me to arrange and organize my affairs. The inexorable passage of time demands that I undertake these preparatory measures, ensuring that all is set in order, like a finely tuned symphony awaiting its crescendo.

  Among the privileged ears to listen to my scheme are none other than my mother and father. I make my announcement during breakfast. As expected, their reaction was one of profound silence, devoid of verbal expression. My father, seated across from me, fixates his unblinking, glossy eyes upon my own. Although he no longer possesses the ability to articulate his thoughts, I am intimately familiar with the very words that my father would have voiced. His counsel would have been: “Preserve what you love before it erodes with time.”

  Meanwhile, my dear mother, seated beside him, casts upon me an adoring gaze through the tangle of overgrown marigolds, partially obscuring her own gleaming eyes. She would undoubtedly nod in concurrence and regurgitate his words verbatim.

  Before leaving the house, I dutifully attend to the essential task of tending to their needs. I pick up the watering can and pour its contents over my mother’s head. The water cascades over the marigolds, traversing their delicate petals, and meandering, much like tears, along her pallid cheeks. Later, I apply a touch of rosy blush to her visage, imbuing her countenance with a renewed vitality, as though life itself is coursing through her veins once more.

  I give her a tender peck on the cheek, and in that moment, I swear I see the emergence of a smile on her vermilion lips. Then, I stride over to my father’s side, and extend my hand to clasp his own. Although his hand lacks human warmth, the contact is met with an undeniable sensation—a texture of coarse and unyielding leathery skin, etched with the passage of time. I apply a cream to his skin, smoothing out the creases and wrinkles, followed by a touch of blush to his cheeks, aiming to infuse vitality and vibrancy into his complexion.

  Our quiet daily ritual, however, is disrupted by an onslaught of text messages assaulting my phone, causing it to shriek incessantly. The dark patrons, gripped by panic, are reacting to the announcement I sent out the previous night regarding my final artistic endeavor. All of them now implore me, with desperate pleas, to conceive yet another masterpiece that will serve as a mesmerizing centerpiece in their opulent residences or extravagant establishments.

  Some boldly inquire about acquiring my ultimate artwork for their personal possession, accompanied by a handsome sum destined for my designated beneficiary. Among the throng, a few individuals express an ardent desire to bear witness to the sacred rites of my creative process. However, I choose to disregard them all and reach out to the sole person in whom I have placed my unwavering trust, and whom I’ve mentored for years, preparing them for the day they will ascend to my throne—my apprentice.

  “How sure are you that you want to go through with this?” he asks.

  “I’m very sure. If I wait any longer, I’m afraid that my essence will fade with time and then it’ll be too late.”

  After our call ends, I say my goodbyes to my mother and father, subtly hinting at the possibility of our paths crossing again in the near future. Who’s to say what lies beyond the veil of existence, for who knows if any semblance of this realm awaits on the other side. From a distance, I watch as the fire’s ferocious tongues mercilessly consume my childhood home, their ravenous dance painting the sky with billowing columns of smoke.

  *****

  Despite the repugnant and savage nature of this world, I find myself yearning to relish each passing moment as I walk through the city's intricate web of chic boutiques, exquisite dining establishments, and charming cafes, juxtaposed against occasional pockets of poverty. Within these pockets, the air carries pungent odors emanating from the unwashed bodies of the inhabitants seeking refuge in makeshift tents.

  Every passerby is a potential muse, yet my best subjects have been those rendered invisible by society. Sympathy for these creatures is a rarity, as most view them merely as an invasive species of rodent or opportunities to embellish their resumes through acts of charity. But I give the invisible visibility. I provide them with a sense of usefulness and meaning in life, even if their new purpose is to be used as mere aesthetic pieces adorning the walls of a private residence or the grand lobby of a hotel.

  Though I remain anonymous, my signature pervades every corner. My work elicits a range of emotions, from shock and disgust to, above all, awe. Even the most unsophisticated individuals can’t resist the compulsion to touch and marvel at the blood and sweat infused into each crafted piece.

  My most recent masterpiece, a sculpted version of Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus," has a captivating power that leaves me breathless every time I cast my gaze upon it in the grand entrance hall of the office tower. Visitors are compelled to photograph themselves in front of it, their eyes brimming with admiration and, perhaps, a subtle hint of desire for the naked marvel standing within the gaping mouth of a colossal clam, gracefully adrift in the fountain's watery embrace.

  “She’s so lifelike,” I overhear a visitor remark. “I wonder how the artist did it.”

  A smirk creeps across my face. If only they knew …

  A deep sense of despondency engulfs me, knowing that, from this day forward, I will no longer be able to craft further manifestations of my art. I find solace in the knowledge that my apprentice will carry on the legacy. Upon arriving at the art studio on the 30th floor, I find that he is still in the middle of organizing the equipment needed for the immortalization process.

  Unexpectedly, an unfamiliar sentiment strikes my core with an overpowering wave of finality. I fling open the window curtains, allowing the panoramic vista of the metropolis to envelop my senses from the lofty vantage point. Oh, if only the world had one neck, that I might grasp it in its entirety and carry it alongside me.

  “Shall we begin?” my apprentice asks, standing beside me, prepared with surgical gloves and a black vinyl apron. I can sense his eagerness to delve into the creative process. The utmost essential quality an artist must have is dedication—to devote their entire being, both physically and spiritually.

  The first stage of preparation involves purifying the body by getting rid of impurities. Stepping into the hot shower, a jolt of excitement surges through me, eliciting a moan from my lips, as I anticipate my own immortalization. My moans resonate throughout the bathroom that had once been filled with the desperate cries and screams of my subjects.

  After the cleansing, I emerge into the work area, utterly exposed and pulsating with anticipation. My protégé has transformed the room into a pristine surgical theater. While I’m content with the setup, my senses are jarred by the unexpected intrusion of several figures gazing through the adjacent room’s transparent barrier.

  “I thought I made it clear to you that this is intended to be a private ritual,” I assert, my voice imbued with escalating tension.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Yes, you did, but how I see it is that this ritual is now under my authority, and those present have invested a considerable sum to witness this significant occasion.”

  I glare at him; the mounting tension is about to shatter my composure. I thought that I could place my trust in him, having carefully scouted for an apprentice who closely resembled myself, both in terms of artistic philosophy and approach. Yet, it seems my judgment was mistaken. Now I’ve no choice but to postpone the ritual and seek a replacement for this apprentice.

  My trembling hand reaches for the scalpel on the tray, but I’m not quick enough. I’m seized by a sudden, piercing sensation, as a sharp pointed object breaches the delicate flesh of my neck. The elixir's potency takes hold without delay. A tingling sensation surges throughout my entire being. Muscles convulse, then surrender, relinquishing their strength, while my joints succumb to feebleness.

  My legs falter, and I collapse onto my side on the cold floor. My speech is stifled, rendered mute. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the apprentice, brandishing an empty syringe in his hand and a malicious grin on his face.

  *****

  I find myself unexpectedly positioned not on the surgical table, as I had originally planned, but rather on the dining table. I can't whimper or even make the slightest wiggle of a toe. All I can do is breathe and gaze helplessly at the crystal chandelier above me, its intense white light blinding me. Suddenly, his silhouette appears, his smiling face and piercing blue eyes meeting mine.

  “I don’t feel sorry,” he begins, “for disregarding your request. However, I believe that I will be doing you a tremendous favor by making some alterations to your plan. I know you wanted to be displayed, with your skin and all intact, beside your beloved Venus. At first, I found it to be a captivating notion. Yet, upon reflection, I realized that there is no better way to capture your essence than by allowing it to thrive within those who have dedicated themselves to helping you realize your creations.”

  He gestures for the dark patrons to take seats at the table. "I’ve gathered you all here today to partake in a ceremony unlike any other. As you are aware, my master has decided to depart from our physical realm and wishes for his remains to be shown to the public as a statue of no value.

  “While I deeply admire him as not only my mentor but also a father figure, having gained invaluable knowledge and honed my skills under his guidance, I respectfully disagree with his decision. In my view, it would be a disheartening reality for him to become a mere decorative trinket. So, how can we preserve his essence and continue his legacy? The answer is simple: we eat him; every piece of his flesh will live within us. So, let us commence the evening with a glass of white wine and some ass.”

  The dark patrons laugh and applause, their voices intertwining in a crescendo of excitement in a maddening debate, each vying to claim the delicate artifact that will grace their private gallery of body parts. In a single swift motion, my traitor severs my manhood and dangles it before the enthused guests, proclaiming a victor once someone answers a trivial question correctly.

  The apprentice then maneuvers me to a prone position with my face turned, giving me a glimpse of one of the guests. Instantly, I recognize her as the owner of the skinless statue of David ensconced within her foyer and the winner of my manhood. She catches my eye, and with a sardonic grin, holds out the severed object in front of my face, giving the tip a little kiss.

  The portly gentleman, donning a tuxedo, also has something belonging to me on his plate. It isn’t a slice of my buttock; rather, one of my testicles is still enveloped in its skin. He seems a little disgusted and perplexed as to how to approach consuming it, and when the apprentice proposes eating it raw, his uncertainty only deepens.

  “I can assure you that it’s the best way to eat it,” says the apprentice. “The testosterone hormones in that one sac alone will improve your stamina by tenfold. You’ll feel young again! Alive!”

  Now, convinced by his words, the gentleman tears at the skin using his teeth and bites into the bloodied testicle, producing a crunching sound and filling my ears with the smacking of his lips.

  Amidst the hushed whispers of the dinner guests, the strident song of a blade gliding against the twin-prong meat-carving fork resonates in the air. A piercing agony shoots through my very being as the fork pierces my left cheek, while the blade deftly severs thin morsels from the fatty buttock.

  The guests dip the slices into a small stone pot brimming with boiling water, then they savor the morsel and complement it with a sip of white wine. I overhear their praises of the meat, how succulent, sweet and tangy it is. They’re craving for more. The apprentice readily complies and even tells them an anecdote of how he came to acquire a taste for human flesh. The dark patrons lean in with great interest.

  “I was sent out by my master to search for another subject,” he begins, “and you know, he prefers the derelicts, and so I scouted for one where most of these creatures gather at night—the grand park. At that time, food was scarce for them as many of the food banks had shut down. Imagine my surprise when I entered the park, I smelled smoked meat in the air, and I came across a market at the center.

  ‘They were grilling meat over a fire using barrels as grills. The smell made my mouth water and my stomach grumble. Since I had skipped supper that night, I succumbed to temptation and bought one skewered meat. To my surprise, it tasted wonderful, and I devoured it in seconds. Curious, I asked about how they came to get the meat, considering it was a luxury they couldn’t afford. They explained that their hunger had driven them to unsavory means to survive. They killed and ate one of their own.”

  The dark patrons gasp and cry out, “Animals!”

  The apprentice chuckles. “But my dear sirs and madams, is it any different to what we’re doing now?”

  “Of course, it is!” they respond, indignantly.

  Knowing better than to argue with them, he nods in agreement with them. “Of course, you’re right. The meat you’re being served is clean and of the finest quality. Yes, I know the younger the better, but an aged one has a unique taste of its own. It all depends on class and diet. Because my master lived in luxury, thanks to your patronage, his diet consisted of the best and most nutritious food.”

  Once they’ve finished the buttocks, I am flipped onto my back, and the process of cutting the abdomen open begins, starting from just below the belly button to my Adam’s apple. The guests emit ecstatic squeals of delight, their eyes look on in amazement upon the pulsating heart nestled within the rib cage. They engage once again in heated contention, vying to claim possession of the heart or to consume it themselves.

  Meanwhile, searing pain relentlessly swallows me whole, striking repeatedly like a mighty wave that pulls you into its depths. The chandelier above, which once glimmered, now dims, gently swaying from side to side. Its crystals, stained with my blood, drip silently. The light slips away despite my desperate attempt to hold onto it tightly. Then, I find myself immersed in utter darkness.

  Cold and alone.

  And gradually, oh so gradually, the pain becomes a numbing sensation.

  *****

  A boy trails behind his parents as they leisurely explore the art exhibit that they’ve forced him to attend. First, they take the obligatory family picture in front of the fountain featuring Venus gracefully perched up in the mouth of a clam. Her pale skin has a softness to it, and her somber eyes, gazing down at him, seem to possess life. Both his parents and the other visitors find the statue fascinating, and the fact that the artist responsible for its creation is cloaked in mystery, further enhancing its allure.

  That’s the only thing of interest he has come across thus far in the exhibit. All the other paintings and sculptures by different artists strive for a minimalist and abstract aesthetic, but they pale in comparison to the fountain.

  Bored, he decides to break free and explore on his own, yearning to stumble upon something captivating, something he could play with. Suddenly, his attention is seized by a peculiar sight: an enigmatic, white tree with a wax replica—a man’s figure, or rather, just the upper torso of a man—crucified upon it.

  Despite the immediate fear that grips the boy’s heart upon witnessing the sculpture, he summons the courage to take a step forward and examine it more closely. The closer he inches towards it; the growing unease intensifies as he takes in the unsettling sight before him. The figure’s ribs laid bare, eye sockets sunken, and mouth frozen open, mimicking a scream, devoid of teeth, gums, and tongue. Marigolds sprout from the exposed crown of his head. And instead of arms, twisted and gnarled ivory branches protrude from the torso.

  The sign beside the sculpture reads: A tree taken from the Woods of the Self-Murderers, artist unknown.

  The display attracts several more people, who gaze upon it with a mix of disgust, fascination, and curiosity. However, their attention is soon diverted by the sight of waiters circulating with trays of complimentary meaty appetizers on elegant silver platters. Each visitor eagerly seizes one and devours it, while the boy refrains from instantly eating his portion. He raises the skewered meat to his nose and inhales its aroma before indulging in a small nibble.

  As he gazes back at the morbid display, an inexplicable sense of connection overwhelms him, as though he has ingested a fragment of it and its essence now courses through his veins.

  .

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