Human

Author's Note: I'm...honestly not sure about this one. This is pretty old, somehow. I drafted out a weird little flow of ideas during one CL class, and wasn't able to write it properly for several weeks because I've either been too busy or too tired or too lazy. And I didn't post it for 3 days after writing it because I was honestly scared about what the quality of this really is. I feel like I've been trying to do morbid stuff lately, and I'm just worried I only seem like I'm forcing the mood. But I just really want to try branching out into that genre, if only slightly. Sorry for any typos, or what not. Sort of a random little descriptive piece. Semi-inspired by A Study in Emerald, by Neil Gaiman.
///
All of them were laid out in front of him, on the table. They were his tools, his own equivalent of an artist's paintbrushes.

The needles, scalpels, and tweezers were laid across the table, disorganized. They were obviously just recently used. He took a step back to admire the beauty of his work. He liked to believe he was an artist at what he did.

His hand hovered over a bottle of anesthesia that stood neatly by the corner of a tray, and he looked at it with disdain. He never did like using it. It was nothing more than a burden. He didn't need it. He liked his patients in the most human state. They should feel every relishing moment of pain.

Sometimes he used glue. He liked the way it was so neat. The tiny little globs would look so snug, sealing whatever needed to be sealed, but what he liked the most was that it was temporary. Eventually it would melt away and fall. And after all, wasn't that always the fate of every god damn thing in this world?

However, for this little creation, he used the classic of a surgeon; one of his needles, and a bunch of thread. He liked using different colors for different occasions. White got stained, especially near those open wounds, and the blood would get absorbed in its material. It would always get dirty and stained, and that was what he considered to be a realistic embellishment to his masterpiece of human pain.

Black, on the other hand, was a distortion. He liked how it stood out, against the delicate softness of vulnerable human flesh. It was like a distorted scar, permanently tainting what might otherwise be perfect.

Perfection didn't exist. Humans who strived to be perfect were fools, in his opinion.

His creation was near the table, standing near the area it was created in the first place. It writhed in agony and discomfort.

Its hair was in patches from the areas he had opened its skull and dug thin spikes into the thin membrane that was left protecting its brain. He was particularly proud of a small, physically unnoticeable touch-a few microchips in its brain, which heightened its receptors for pain.

He loved how his art was so delicate.

It was a creature that always looked up. Its chin was pointed straight ahead, perfectly parallel to its body. He had added a thin sheet of metal plating to the back of its neck, and infused the first few discs of the spinal cord. His human statue would never look down-it was far too beautiful for that. It would look up at the world with pride-whether it wanted to or not.

Behind its lips, which looked pale and stretched from its plumping, its teeth were perfect. The problem was that it was too perfect, and he didn't want them to continue hitting against each other. That would mean their inevitable destruction over time. He had carefully run his needle through its mouth. Fine, straight black lines of thread lined its pink gums, with the stitches going across the soft tissue. The other stitches were ones that formed "x" patterns across the pristine white teeth. This picture of perfection didn't need to speak.

He lifted up one of its hands. He had opened up each finger's skin at the sides and sewn the edges together. He always did love the theme of unity, of oneness. If all humans had hands with no separate fingers, they would need each other more. Maybe even kill each other less.

He liked it when his art spoke such great messages, without needing words.

The sculpture flinched at the slightest bit of pressure on it. He had taken careful measures to skin it-leaving only a thin layer left to cover everything. Almost literally, it had paper-thin skin. It was so weak, tore at the slightest pressure, and it was so limiting. All receptors of touch were almost ridiculously close to the surface, and since pain was enhanced in its own brain; even a breeze would send this creature into torture.

It stood tall-its feet had spiked heels. He was satisfied with the way the craftsmanship turned out. The spike was 6 inches, made of stainless steel, and was welded into the bone of her foot's real heel. This magnificent creature would stand tall, on permanent heels, adorned on its own pedestal. He had done the same thing with its toes as he had with its fingers, and it was shaped into a perfect point. It almost looked like a natural shape.

Difficult (actually, impossible), to walk, but art didn't need to walk.

Eyes stared at him, wide and pleading. It wasn't blinking. He had always found blinking annoying, it always caused temporary moments of blindness. A single moment that one misses could change everything; and his art was going to show how idiotic all society is being for taking things for granted.

Removing its eyelids had been a tricky task, but he had taken the most careful measures to coat its eyes with a thin, clear film to keep them as clean as possible. They were, however, eternally filling up with tears.

Ah, yes. Tears. So human. So weak. So heartbreakingly beautiful.

An image of humanity's mortality and weakness was here in front of him, reflected in a creature that was only bordering on human. The only proof left of its humanity was the utter misery, despair, and loathing of its artist that was reflected in its eyes. That look, and of course; its response to its former name-Arie.

It was his finest work.

His daughter was simply breathtaking.