The Weight of the Breath

Fiction

Stop trembling. It is an inefficiency of the nerves. Look at the throat. Most sculptors attempt to mimic the appearance of skin; I have instead captured the absence of it. The technique is a matter of atmospheric pressure and timing. The marble must be chilled until it is a heat sink. At the exact moment of the final expiration, the stone is pressed against the lips. A vacuum is created through a series of micro-perforations in the marble, drawing the soul's last warmth into the crystalline structure. It is a precise, clinical theft. Feel the chest. The stone is frigid, yet there is a vibration beneath the surface. That is the trapped breath, forever trying to expand against a wall of calcium carbonate. It is the only way to achieve a portrait that actually lives. Listen. The boots are on the stairs. The Inquisition arrives to cleanse the city of pneumatic heresy. They do not value the preservation of the spirit; they value the silence of the grave. Move aside, boy. I will not leave this for them to study. A masterpiece is defined not only by its creation, but by the timing of its destruction.