He is the epitome of perfection.
Suspended from the gallows, his flawless form hangs an unmoving, unchanging, undisturbed corpse that defies the ubiquitous uncertainty in the ever-evolving world. The souls that tread the tumultuous world of the living lay bare their faults in unapologetic abandon: imperfect desires, imperfect gait, imperfect handiwork, imperfect speech. In no aspect does he fall to such depths – he is the one being that remains eternal in this sea of revulsion and indulgence. The lowly, flawed bystanders cast their filthy eyes onto his image for a brief breathless moment, revelling in his grace at the podium, enveloped with awe before they inevitably turn away, shifting in tandem with the world. Meanwhile, he is still lifeless at his post.
He does not breathe.
He cannot breathe; it’s only natural, for isn’t it a given that a perfect man needn’t such needless needs?
She suffocates underneath his skin.
Pallor mortis, livor mortis, algor mortis, rigor mortis. She recites the same prayer within that pristine shell which remains perpetually suspended above the pavement, paying her due penance for the price of perfection. She must prevent the putrefaction from settling, for it is impossible for a perfect man to decay.
He mustn’t decay; that defies the definition of his very existence.
She is starkly aware. She has been.
But the mould and mildew that spreads from his insides betray him.
He wraps his hands around his neck, his fingers gently sliding over the opposing hand, eventually hooking one thumb against the other to form a butterfly. Its beautiful wings do not take flight; instead, in an instant the wings crumple inwards, piercing into the cocoon, digging beneath the flesh, strangulating, breaching beneath to kill off the betraying blasphemy that begs to be birthed from the blemished thoughts that blight his subconsciousness. If he can tear out this sickly virus from the root, his hamartia, the human that he secretly harbours, it is almost certain that he will be perfect. He is unlike those swine – his very purpose is fundamentally different.
She must be sacrificed for the sake of sanctity. She must be snuffed into silence.
She weeps in agony, but no tears or cries escape from her confines.
His carcass is poised as usual.
To be perfect is to be envied. He relishes such awareness, flaunting his merits before the murky masses bearing minds muddled by flaws. Yet she is the envious one. The chests of these humans rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall… in tandem with the changing seasons. How is it possible for someone to breathe under their imperfect hide? The asphyxia that she endures, suffocating each cell into submission, depriving her of any such form of relief — the rest of these humans endure no such pain. What distinction allows them to reprieve?
She is subdued.
He is sickened.
He turns his head towards the sky, now finding the ground unbearable to glance down upon.