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“Once I achieve this… I will be perfect,” He would smirk, looking down upon the tool He created. It was but another toy to the Deity. As it looked up at Him, it would merely remain silent, like the lifeless creation it was. Pathetic, was all it was. Pathetic. The shadow concealing His face did nothing to hide His expression of satisfaction. His voice was nearly mocking the thing before Him.
“Telamon… Why… Why must you forsaken me like this?..” It would beg, tears threatening to spill. His degradation was nothing new to it, like how a perfect rock would slowly weather. He saw no purpose in the doll, at least not one it was aware of. “Don’t leave me here, Creator… I have not wronged you!..” It would cry out, its body shaking with fear. It depends on Him, does it not? “Please, my Lord, I–” It paused as Telamon laid a hand upon its shoulder.
Its breath would hitch and its eyes widened as its once pearl-like skin corrupted and stained with the black of the God’s hatred, like ink staining a pristine sheet of paper, like mold on a perfect dish. Its voice turned even more desperate, cracking as it felt the pain rush through its veins, unfiltered and stinging like venom. Its once opaque torso became a sickening, bright green, every rib and bone showing through it. The creature wanted to vomit. Scream. Cry. And yet, it knew how the God acted. It knew it would merely make things worse.
Time seemed to go on forever. Its vision blurred with its unshed despair. The pain began to stop. Dropped to the floor and tossed away to the lifeless banlands would be the object’s fate.
“I shan’t let anyone know of you.”
It’s ears rung. Everything was dark. It would plead until speaking felt as if it were swallowing glass. Each day, it would look for an exit. It never wanted this. It did nothing wrong. Yet, no matter how much it begged for Telamon’s mercy into the void landscape, it proved worthless, just like itself. Its hunger became unbearable. The growls of its empty stomach were louder than its voice.
It would look everywhere it could for scraps.
It would eat anything.
Anything.
It could not think straight. As it plucked its unpreened feathers, it looked at the plumage in its boney hands. It could not use its wings. Not with how weak it was.
It tore at the wings on its back. Skin and flesh ripped and warm crimson dripped from the wounds upon its back, splattering across the soil it knelt on. It stared at the feathered appendages, before reluctantly bringing it to its starving mouth. The crunch disgusted the creature, yet the feeling of real food in its empty stomach was too satisfying to pass. To finally eat after all these weeks, it scarfed down the food as if it were a wild animal, ruthlessly feasting. It ignored the agonizing feeling in its back. Blood created a mess on its hands and mouth. It desperately licked at the remains of it off of his hands, desperate for whatever it could find.
