Bartholomew (Part 2)

My head emerges from the pile, my throat and breathing raw and painful from a night oblivious of irritating sawdust. But this is not what pains me most. It is not the priceless mahogany sculpture reduced to worthless scraps that I had dedicated myself so diligently to. So… perfectly too. No. Not that. Not the worry of the deadline approaching in 2 hours. No. Failure pains me substantially, but Creation was never in grasp. Is never. No. It is my finger that pains me most. The skin is raw and painful where I had stabbed through, the flab of skin bordering the small of my right little finger’s nail had been cleanly cut off, a minor wound in context, but it upon itself a door to horrors beyond delving. The opposing side in proportion is so large it sickens me and my eyes cannot break from their stare. It was blatantly… ferocious; the magnitude of such a superficially minor scar monumentally, so, so, crushingly, destructively
IM
PERFECT?
NOT
NOT!
NO
that it morphs my five senses of reality to a point beyond this feeble world. What is this hellish place? How could it have been?
DAMN IT!
FAILURE
FAILURE
CAPITAL
ETERNAL
And time chokes.
I wake from the haze at the door of my patron, nothing in hand but for the hollow window of a glove that separates one sight from another. The door swings inward and the grin on the noble’s face quickly metamorphoses into a questioning frown when he sees my empty hands. I hide my mutilated finger behind my back. The man cocks an eyebrow before welcoming me in to his home with a tint of hesitation. His home. His glorious home. The world compared to the compact cesspool of a shed I live, work, and will die in. I tremble inside, nauseous from the heavenly height of the sculpted roof, of angels and demons and naked saints with wings; I hide my hand from the scrutinizing gaze of God. BUT oh! May he fire a bolt of fire and strike me dead for it is the Pope, the Pope himself seated across from myself! Suddenly oblivious to the 8th wonder that is the establishment; I crash into my marked dining chair, dizzy with anxiety. I remove my glove, my shield, in a gesture of formality. But it remains hidden, unseen beneath the rosewood table, obscured from the views of all but one. Attempt after attempt of picking up the spoon in my left hand is thwarted, for my left is as goofy as the talent in my right. My fingers slip, a haunting reverberation of the events of how many was it? nights before, and hot soup spills on my right forearm and begins slowly working its way down to my fingers. The hosts look at me expectantly, then, upon realizing the overhanging air of awkwardness, begin a humdrum chatter of nondescript things like what else but the weather. The hot soup continues its trek, but I manage to maintain my deteriorating composure as I excuse myself from the table, eyes locked perpetually at my feet.