Page 7 of There Are No Saints

His body goes limp. Three minutes later, I release him.

Then the butchering begins.

While I’m working, I feel a sense of purpose. I’m stimulated, interested, flushed with satisfaction.

This is the feeling I always get when I’m creating art.

* * *

The sculpture is exquisite.My best work yet.

I show it at Oasis, where I know Shaw will likewise display his latest work.

None of the bones are recognizable as a rib, a mandible, a femur. I filed them down, dipped them in gold, and mounted them in an entirely new arrangement. Still, their linear, organic shape remains. The sculpture lives, in a way it never would've had it been constructed of gilded metal or stone.

The response is immediate and ecstatic.

“My god, Cole, you’ve outdone yourself,” Betsy breathes, staring at the sculpture like it's an idol. “What are you calling it?”

“Fragile Ego,” I reply.

Betsy laughs. “How uncharacteristically self-deprecating,” she says.

I say nothing in return, because as usual, Betsy has completely missed the point.

I’m not referencing my own ego, which is indestructible.

Before the night is out, my sculpture has sold for $750,000 to some newly minted tech billionaire.

“Are they planning to melt it down for the gold?” Alastor says sourly.

He’s never sold a piece for half that much.

“I don’t think anyone’s bought a piece ofmyart just to destroy it,” I say, reminding Shaw that a fundamentalist church bought one of his paintings just to set it on fire. That was in his early days when he was a provocateur, not a salesman.

He’s in no mood for mockery tonight. His face looks puffy above the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, his broad chest rising and falling a little too rapidly.

He stares at the sculpture with unconcealed envy.

Shaw has talent, I can admit that.

But I have more.

Then, in the midst of his irritation and resentment, his entire expression changes. Understanding dawns.

“No . . .” he says softly. “You didn’t . . .”

I don’t have to confirm it, and I don’t bother to deny it. The truth is plain for anyone who has eyes to see.

Alastor lets out a sensual sigh.

“The balls on you . . .” he says. “To put it up for display . . .”

Briefly, he sets aside his jealousy. I set aside my loathing.

We gaze at the sculpture, sharing a moment of deep satisfaction.

Then his impulses take over and he can’t help sneering, “It took the small words of a small man to motivate you to make great art.”

---