<aside>

He is perfect.

Suspended from the gallows, his limp carcass hangs motionless. Wind passes. Clouds drift. Waves of people come and go — restless, unfinished.

They walk with uneven steps, speak too quickly, hands fumbling with the small tasks of living. Desire pulls them in one direction, regret in another. They are always changing, always failing, always beginning again.

He does none of this.

He remains as he is.

Some fleeting gazes are thrown his way. For a moment, their eyes linger on the stillness of his form, the strange dignity of a body untouched by motion or breath. They turn away and continue, swallowed by the ever-shifting world.

He does not breathe.

He cannot.

Yet something switches from within the confines of his skin.

Within the pale shell of his body, she repeats the same quiet litany, over and over, as though words might hold decay at bay.

Pallor mortis. Livor mortis. Algor mortis. Rigor mortis.

Regardless of whether she speaks them or not, the rot spreads. She knows this — she has always known. Still, she recites them like a prayer, as if her pleas might preserve her sanctity.

A perfect body cannot rot.

A perfect man must not fall apart.

But the smell of damp earth gathers within him, something soft begins to bloom where nothing living should remain.

He feels it.

His hands rise toward his throat, resting against bated breath. Fingers gently slide over the opposing hand, one thumb hooks against the other. For a brief moment, a frail butterfly rests there.

Then the wings fold.

His grip tightens. Fingers collapse inwards, pressing against the soft flesh beneath his jaw, squeezing i an attempt to crush the flaw inside him — the small and stubborn voice that refuses to die.

His hamartia.

It whispers, breathes, remembers.

If he can silence her — if he can tear the weakness from the root, maim the writhing parasite that he harbours — then perhaps the rest of him will remain pure.

Perfect.

His body sways faintly in the passing breeze.

Below him, the living continue their quiet rhythm. Their chests rise and fall without effort, each breath arriving as naturally as the next.

Rise, and fall.

She watches through his eyes.

They are flawed, careless. They waste the air they greedily take. Yet it comes to them freely, filling their lungs without restraint.

The still body tightens slowly around her.

She envies them.

The world grows dim. The sounds below blur together. The steady breath of strangers drifts further.

At last, she is consumed.

Silence.

The perfect man lifts his head and turns his face to the sky.

The ground had become too unbearable.

</aside>