The Sculptor

Either way, I promise I’ll leave it up to you. It’s the least I can do. Yes, after all you’ve done for me. I owe you that.”

Then, without warning, Cathy spoke.

“My dear Christian,” she said—her voice not her own, the subtle flicker of recognition in The Sculptor’s eyes giving her the strength to continue. “Oh my son, oh my dear boy—let me hold you one last time.”

The Sculptor cocked his head—curiously.

“Mary, Mary, mother of God,” Cathy said automatically, an inner force ordering her what to say. “Mother and daughter and wife of the Son. Let me hold you one more time, my Christian. Just like in our Pieta.”

The Sculptor leaned into her.

“I’m here, my Christian. Your Mary—your mother, your daughter, your wife. I knew you would understand. I knew you would find me again—my love, my only son.”

“Mother?” whispered The Sculptor—his eyes glazing over.

“Yes, my Christian,” Cathy said—at once lucid and borderline insane before the foul heat of The Sculptor’s breath. “It’s your Mary—your wife, your mother. Loosen the straps, my son. Let me make love to you again. Let me make love to you again in that special way, the way no one else understands—our secret. Yes, just like when you were a boy, my Christian. Let me take you in my arms and hold you the way I used to—just like in the Pieta.”

“Mother?” The Sculptor repeated. “Mother is that you?”

“Yes, my Christian. Let me love you again. Just like in the Pieta.”

“Just like in the statue, Mother?”

“Yes, my dear Christian. Mary and Christ. A mother loving her son. Just like in the statue.”

The Sculptor did not move his face—kept it close enough to kiss her—but Cathy felt his fingers on the straps at her wrists.

“That’s it, my son. Let me come forth from the stone. Let me touch you again from beyond the grave.”

First her right, then her left—yes, her hands were free! The Sculptor lay on top of her—his face nuzzling in her neck, the hardness of his erection pressing against her leg.

“I’m here, Mother.”

“That’s my little Christian,” Cathy groaned—a wave of nausea making her tremble. She swallowed hard and ran her nails down The Sculptor’s muscular back. “The strap on my head, my Christian—across my chest and on my feet—release me from my slumber, my son. Let your mother go. Let me make love to you again after all these years—let me sit up and hold you just like in the statue.”

Outside herself, Cathy watched the scene unfold before her as if she were sitting in a movie theatre. She gazed upon The Sculptor with detached terror as he, zombielike, his eyes locked with hers, unbuckled the straps on her head and feet. And when he sat beside her on the table, when he released the strap about her chest, Cathy watched herself in numb amazement as she sat up on the mortician’s table and took The Sculptor in her arms.

“Let me hold you, my son. Let me make love to you just like in the statue.”

The Sculptor lay across her lap—closed his eyes and suckled at Cathy’s breast as the man once called Christian moved her hand to his groin.

“This makes Mommy sorry?” mumbled The Sculptor. “This makes Mommy love me again?”

“Yes, my Christian,” Cathy sputtered—the dam that was her will, her sanity, about to break. “Mommy is so very sorry, but don’t ever forget that Mommy loves you.”

Her fear, her revulsion rushing back all at once, as Cathy’s left hand closed around The Sculptor’s shaft, the fingers of her right found the IV needle. Without thinking, without pausing, Cathy Hildebrant brought down the stubby steel barb hard into The Sculptor’s eye—heard a squirty pop and felt his penis go limp as he shrieked in pain, as his hands flew to his face and he flopped off her lap like a fish.

Cathy dropped from the table, The Sculptor writhing on the floor only inches away from her—his screams swallowed up by the spongy black walls surrounding him. Despite her panic, Cathy could not help but notice the computer screen. She did not pause, however, when she saw the figure of Michelangelo’s Dawn floating in the black like a corpse on the sea. No, instead Cathy immediately went for The Sculptor’s video camera—picked up the tripod and brought it down like a club on the back of his head as he rose to his knees. The Sculptor—a hand at his eye, the blood spurting between his fingers—braced his fall with his free arm; he just knelt there stunned for a moment staring at the floor. But as Cathy brought the tripod up again, The Sculptor unexpectedly kicked out his leg like a mule, knocking the video camera from Cathy’s hands and sending her flying into the mortician’s table. It swung on its chains—gave way to her weight as Cathy fell backward. There was a loud crack—the feeling of the floor giving way beneath her—and suddenly Cathy was falling.

In the split second that it took her to hit the cement below, Cathy understood what had happened— remembered all too well what the mortician’s table had looked like from the DVD and knew that she had fallen into a trap underneath. But unlike her intellect, her feet were not so accommodating; and Cathy slammed into the first floor of The Sculptor’s studio—her left ankle buckling and twisting in a bright burst of pain. Cathy howled and stumbled against the van—the force of her impact bouncing her backward into a pile of plastic sheeting. Yes, there was light down here cast from a small black-and-white monitor atop the drafting table.

And then there was the smell. The strong smell of—

Nail polish remover?

Cathy did not have time to think. She could hear The Sculptor scuttling above her. She screamed and staggered to the garage door—tried to lift it by its handle but it would not budge.

“Help me!” Cathy cried. “Somebody help me!” Like a caged rat, Cathy zigzagged to the rear of The Sculptor’s studio—found no exit there either and collapsed at the edge of the stainless steel hospital tub. The smell of the nail polish remover was stronger here; it was coming from inside the tub—a tub that looked to Cathy like a chrome coffin.

The Plastination chemicals, Cathy thought. The acetone.

Cathy spied a cup on the ledge of The Sculptor’s slop sink and made a limping dash for it. She was back at the tub just as The Sculptor’s feet dropped through the trap door in the ceiling. Cathy threw open the lid and plunged the cup into the cold, stingy liquid. Quickly she brought it out again, hiding it from view as she crouched by the tub, as she turned to face her attacker. Her eyes met The Sculptor’s as his feet hit the floor. He just stood there, staring at her for what seemed like forever—his one good eye blinking robotically as the blood trickled down from the other’s pulpy socket.

Then The Sculptor began to giggle.

Amidst her paralyzing fear, out of the corner of her eye Cathy spied the glow of the garage door button to her left—two of them, in fact, across the hood of the van on the opposite wall next to a door.

“All right,” Cathy hissed, gripping the cup of acetone. “You can’t get it up for anyone but your mother, so I guess you’ll have to kill me you sick son of a bitch.”

In the shadows, in the dim light cast from the TV monitor, Cathy could not see the look in The Sculptor’s remaining eye. No, all Cathy Hildebrant could make out was the clenching of The Sculptor’s fists, the cocking of his elbows and the lowering of his head.

Then, without warning, he charged.

In a flash, Cathy brought up the cup of acetone and splashed it in The Sculptor’s eyes. The Sculptor screeched like a cat, his hands flying to his face as he stumbled backward. Cathy climbed over the rim of the tub and lifted herself onto the van—her bad ankle banging painfully against the wall, her naked flesh rubbing raw as she slid across the hood. Cathy made it to the side entrance. She could not see The Sculptor as he cried out again, as something came crashing down out of sight behind the van.

“Help me!” Cathy shouted—her body sandwiched awkwardly between the van and the door as she wrestled with the knob. Then she noticed the dead bolt—one that required a key from both sides. But Cathy did not pause, did not look behind her when she heard the driver’s side door open, when she realized The Sculptor was coming for her across the front seat of the van. No, her fingers automatically went for the glowing garage door buttons.