Work Text:
I sit on cold china, the darkness of the room around having faded in long ago. They had placed me here, on this delicate and ornately painted plate hours ago, while the light was still streaming through the sheer white curtains softly. There is no sound, save for the ticking clock in a room I cannot see. No sound until it’s broken by the jingle of keys and soft voices.
I can do nothing but listen as they enter the apartment, whispering about getting all the materials in quickly. I hear the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen and plastic bags being placed on a hard surface. As my plate is lifted, I see a flash of white hair and I know it is time.
My plate is placed on hardwood and I'm granted the full view of my creators. One of them, the one that had carried me mere seconds ago, is tall and thin. His white hair is unkempt, with a small section of hair falling over the top of a black headband. A pale scar runs down the left side of his face, turning the associated eye red. His other eye is a pastel blue. The lower half of his face is covered by a black surgical mask, making it difficult to discern his expression. He wears a simple black turtle neck and black latex gloves
The second of my creators stands close to the first. He’s shorter than the other, his pure black eyes wide as he stares up at the creator beside him. A wide smile pulls at his lips, and unruly brown hair is pushed back with a red headband. He wears a white t-shirt, and a hoodie that seems to have the color and texture of moss.
It doesn't take long until I feel cold hands caressing my dirt-covered outer skin. There is warm wetness at my sides as they judge where to put the base of the wings. Vibrant red, blue, and yellow wings sit at my sides as the taller of my creators threads a needle. The shorter one stands above me shining a bright flashlight down. The first stitch is agony, the needle driving into starchy flesh. Catching the needle on the skin that surrounds the base of the wing the stitches continue. The repeated stab and pull of the thin metal tool is relentless.
I cannot scream. I have not the ability to. Only one of two wings are attached now. Though I wished to ascend and am having my wish granted, I dread the pain that is to come. I cannot ask to stop. I cannot beg for anesthetic. All I can do is sit on fine china, covered in blood, dirt, and my own starch.
The second wing is being readjusted to match the placement of the first. I feel the needle slip and struggle to pierce the thick skin on my side. It's torture knowing the pain to come and not knowing when it will come. My lighter-haired creator gives up in favor of cleaning the area and drying off his gloves to reduce slipping. He's back with the needle in mere moments and it's just like the first wing. Without the issue of moist gloves, he has no trouble punching the needle through. First parrot wing skin then through thick peel. Incessantly, the needle drives in and out, yanking at thread.
When both wings are secured, my heterochromic creator steps back, holding out a hand to his partner. In turn, the latter places the flashlight in the former's extended hand gently. The taller steps around to the side of the table, steadily holding the flashlight in its place. The shorter rummages through plastic bags, pulling out plastic packages and bottles with orange nozzle caps. He steps back up to the table, hands full with art supplies that he places on the table haphazardly.
His simile is wide as he opens a package of googly eyes. He sifts through the plastic pieces in their bag with one finger, trying to find ones the right size for his project. Once he’s found them he excitedly puts them into his hand, which he holds out for his partner to examine. The quieter of the two’s masks shifts a little as if he's smiling underneath.
“They’re the perfect size. An unparalleled eye as always.” The response is soft and monotone, a rather relaxing voice. My dark-eyed creator’s grin widens as his cheeks flush a little bit. He turners his attention back to me on my plate, his eyes now critical, but his smile still wide. He quickly turns and is gone for a minute or two, his partner watching him with soft eyes. When he returns, he’s carrying a bowl and a roll of paper towels.
Tearing off one paper from the roll, he folds it and dips it in the bowl for a second. Water drips from the towel and he gently squeezes it to ring out the exes. Bringing the towel to my skin he begins to clean my surface of a mixture of dirt and blood, prepping his canvas. He uses a few towels to achieve his desired surface. When he’s done, he puts the dirtied paper towels to the side and reaches for a bottle of glue.
Wasting no time, he twists the nozzle and begins to squeeze dots of the glue on my now clean skin. He works fast and painlessly. Within a few minutes, I am covered in glue and googly eyes. While they let the glue dry they clean their kitchen. They laugh and splash water at one another in the sink as they clean dishes, pressed to one another's sides.
When the glue is dried, I am taken out of the apartment. I am in a plastic bag and can't see much but by the sound of cars, I assume they are walking on the sidewalk. They are taking me somewhere.
When we reach our destination I am taken out of my plastic bag and placed on the steps of what looks to be city hall. My creators giggle to themselves as they write on signs, leaving a message. They step back and the shorter takes the taller’s hand as he speaks.
“This content was generated by Grumbot. Prompt: Decorate, Potato, Biblical. I think that works perfectly.”