Day two: the sloughing began. A strip of skin on her forearm came away in the shower like wet tissue paper. Beneath it was not blood, not muscle, but a pearlescent, gelatinous layer that shimmered. It smelled of rain on hot asphalt. She did not scream. She took out her X-Acto knife—the one for trimming excess resin—and peeled a larger patch. The release was exquisite. The silence of the studio amplified the wet click of her own cells letting go.
She was a sculptor. She knew flesh. Or rather, she knew how to make stone and plaster pretend to be flesh. For fifteen years, she had chiseled cold breasts, sanded smooth marble buttocks, and lacquered the rigid perfection of women who would never sag, never weep, never rot. Her gallery called it “Neo-Classical Eternity.” Her critics called it “fear of the womb.” She called it Tuesday. Thanatomorphose.2012.DVDRip.x264-RedBlade
She reached out with her remaining arm. The clay. The untouched block of Italian marl waiting on the wheel. Day two: the sloughing began
She pressed her liquefying palm into the clay. The clay received her. No, it welcomed her. They traded textures. The last thing she saw, before her optic nerve dissolved into a pretty amber swirl, was the wheel spinning. It smelled of rain on hot asphalt