The Making of Galatea
One day, she could simply see.
She had known that she was, but had no idea what else was. There was darkness and pressure, choking her consciousness. She was, but she was immobile. Trapped with her own thoughts, and without new ideas. How could there be new thoughts without new information?
It happened slowly. The darkness began to shift and lighten, some of the pressure was removed and soon, she knew she had shape. Not a sophisticated shape, but now she was relative to everything around her. Now, she knew of the cool of the shade and the warmth of the sunlight, the sensation of a breeze. She didn't know where, exactly, her shape was coming from. But she knew that, little by little, she was becoming something.
She could feel supports, holding her up, her weight distributed throughout her being. She could feel parts of her extended beyond the rest, and parts of her kept closely to her core. She could feel herself becoming frustrated with the single sense of touch. Without knowing what else there was, she knew she wanted more.
He gave her ears before he gave her eyes. She could hear, now, how she was being formed. Chink, chink, chink, as he chiseled away at everything else which was weighing her down. She heard him grumbling to himself, thinking aloud. Calling her beautiful. What was "beautiful?"
When he gave her eyes, she could not have been more elated. She could see him, finally. He was often right before her, chiseling away and forming "cheeks" and "lips," a "nose" and a "chin." He worked so close to her, and she watched him closely. His brow furrowed in concentration, he bit his lip in thought. She longed for breath so that she could chuckle at the faces he made while he considered her every angle. He was beautiful.
One day she was complete.
One day her maker stood back, and simply gazed at her. She gazed back, and though she knew he could not feel her attention, she felt his. And it made her feel "beautiful."
He came to her at night, and she was glad. She had often stood in the dark, staring at nothing and waiting for him to return in the morning. Now he came to her, and embraced her, and kissed her hands and her cheeks. He was solid, like she was, but his warm blood and breath made him something other than she, and when he whispered, "How I wish you were alive," she learned what it was that separated them. He was alive, and somehow, she was not.
He began to stay with her, all day and all night. She was happy for his company, but what she wanted more than anything was to live.
He came to her one day, when the lights of the city shone brightly, blending with the lights in the sky that she had come to know were "stars." He tried his best to caress her face, and wished with all her might that she could lean into his touch, but she remained stiff--carved from ivory. "I have prayed to the goddess Venus, my love. I have left her gifts, and begged her that you may live and breathe and be my bride." She prayed to whoever Venus was, that her love would get his wish.
He took her hand, and she felt his warmth in a way she had not before. She felt her fingers curl around his, and with hesitation, took in a breath, as she had watched him do for months. The sensation filled her lungs, which had not been there before, and she felt her chest expand. The chill and the stiffness that had previously been her life--her experience of being--melted, and gave way to something else. She could "smell" and was delighted to find that somehow the things she saw and felt had other signs of existence as well. She learned what was "wet" and what was "dry," for now she could feel a tongue form and move in her mouth and her eyes could blink.
She felt her heart beat in her chest, and new blood course through her every limb, animating her. She looked at her maker, her love, and--unsure of how to speak and bashful in the face of new elements of existence--she touched his face.
His eyes grew wet with tears, and she had seen him cry from loneliness and sorrow, but never from joy or from love. He kissed her lips and she tasted him. He embraced her, and she felt his heart beating against her own. She could see all of him now, where before, he had been out of focus and blurry; she could smell the salt in his sweat and the incense burning in the workshop; she heard his shuddered breath and his whispered prayers of thanks against her ears.
She no longer was--she was alive.
Author's Note:
So this story is based on the story of "Pymalion's Statue" in Ovid's Metamorphosis, from the Mythology Anthology. I thought it would interesting to write his story from the perspective of the statue. It's cool because you get to explore the different facets of existence, like the five senses and self-awareness. That was honestly my favorite part of this story: trying to consider what sensations and how much knowledge a statue would have. A thought in a void is a difficult character, but it's also so much fun.
At first, I was going to make the statue not too into Pygmalion, because I'm sure he was an old guy who sculpted a young girl then wished for her to come alive so he could marry her--and that's creepy. But I think that a statue who'd never met anyone else would kind of have no choice but to fall in love with him. So in my mind, he's a young eccentric guy that the girls weren't that into, so he prayed that his creation would love him--which is still creepy but certainly less so.
