I Hate What You Do To Me (One Paragraph Story)

She held the soft clay in her hands. It had taken weeks to recreate his face. The gentle curve of his jawbone, the perfect invitation of his lips. She had sculpted it all from memory. The exquisite brush of his hair, curled and flicked in delicate arches above his brow. The fine lines around his mouth; a testament to the smile which swelled and bubbled across his face, resonating through her. The perfect dip below his bottom lip, the elegance of his rounded chin. She had worked for this moment for hours on end. It was nearly finished. She hated him, she hated how his face was engraved on her heart. She hated his perfection, his every tiny flaw but an addition to his haunting beauty. She hated the hold he had over her. How he was her first waking thought, the constant voice at the back of her mind. She hated how he dominated everything she did, without the slightest effort. His casual nonchalance as he undid her every weakness. She could almost feel his warm kiss on her lips as she closed her eyes. Her heart was racing jaggedly, the smooth wet clay gave under her hands. She pushed her fingertips into his delicate eyes, the clay sank, embracing her touch. She felt his perfect cheekbones crumple as she tightened her grip. She hated how she couldn't stop thinking about him. Her fingers slipped deeper into the cold clay, distorting his face into a macabre mask. She hated how her heart leapt at the very sight of him. Clay rose between her fingers, his cheeks bubbling between her thumb and forefinger. She hated how she couldn't let go of him, how he possessed her without a single touch. It cut through her like a scalpel slicing her inside. Relinquishing her grip, she gazed at the deformed sculpture. The fine spiderweb of her palm print interlacing the malformed line of his jaw bone, the dig and ridge of her fingers furrowing his cheeks and hairline. The crescent of her fingernails breaking the detail of his brows. The lower half of his lobes flattened into his head, lined with the grip of her knuckles. ‘I hate what you to do me’, her final piece, became hazy and vague as the pills dissolved into her blood. Her heart would beat for him no more.

This is my entry to @vermillionfox 's #foxtales contest, check out the other entries under the tag, and make sure to head over to her post to see how she created this inspiring portrait

Image provided by @vermillionfox