Pygmalion

Pygmalion began as an apprentice. A boy of only twelve, he watched every detail of the carving and sculpting that his mentors so fully devoted themselves to, waiting patiently for his turn with the tools. For a year, he did nothing but witness, absorbing the intricacies of each stroke and committing them to memory. 

After a decade of training, Pygmalion’s hand was as delicate and precise as the best of the great masters. Another decade, and he surpassed them all, creating the most lifelike and beautiful imagery the island of Cyprus had ever seen. 

Pygmalion’s eye for beauty did not end at the tip of his tool. As a boy, he wandered the streets, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He saw every bug as a glorious subject, a perfect creation of divinity in every leaf. As he trained, though, he found himself disillusioned. Spending hours upon hours looking for barely perceptible imperfections in his work had taken a toll on Pygmalion. Now, all he could see were flaws – a crack in the stones, a chip in the paint. Things that may never be noticed by someone less observant, but for Pygmalion, it was all there was to see. 

Over the years, Pygmalion became more and more reclusive. He found it impossible to enjoy anything but that which he created himself. Eventually, he stopped leaving his studio altogether, save for his weekly trips to the market. He wished desperately that he would never have to leave at all, but it was the only way to sustain himself. And so, begrudgingly, he went. 

It was on one of these trips that he came across his most disgusting impact yet – the women who sold themselves. Pygmalion held back a gag as he pictured the imperfections of their bodies. The sag of their breasts, the hair between their brows. He could not imagine an attraction, and could not understand how others felt it. He quickly gathered his groceries and headed home, biting his tongue to prevent him from speaking his mind. 

It was then that he got an idea. No human could be perfect, but his sculptures could be. And so Pygmalion, in a fury of inspiration, began to draft his next piece. 

Day after day, he toiled away in his studio. He chiseled away chunks of marble with unmatched skill and precision, never too shallow or too deep. It was only after weeks of sweat and effort that he finally completed his magnum opus – a woman so exquisite, so lifelike, that she seemed to almost breathe. 

As he gazed upon his creation, Pygmalion felt a love unlike anything he had ever known. His marble masterpiece radiated an otherworldly beauty. Though she was but stone, Pygmalion found himself entranced. He longed for her presence, a woman this pristine, made of flesh and blood. 

Days passed as he sat, staring longingly at his perfect woman. He did not sleep, or eat. He barely seemed to blink. After an eternity, Pygmalion urged himself to walk away, but not for long – for he only left her side in hopes of bringing his masterpiece to life. 

Pygmalion made a pilgrimage to the temple of Aphrodite. He winced at the overgrown moss and unmanicured lawn, but powered through his discomfort, driven by a yearning he could not quell. Finally, Pygmalion arrived at the altar, leaving an offering grander than any other. There, he knelt. While the others around him spoke their prayers aloud, Pygmalion thought a silent hymn. His desire was too shameful to speak, but he knew Aphrodite would hear him anyway. The love he felt was pure and true, and Aphrodite would reward him for that. 

Moved by his devotion and sincerity, just as he hoped she would be, Aphrodite granted that which Pygmalion desired most. With a flick of her divine wrist, she breathed life into the stone so carefully carved by the artist. Pygmalion’s beloved sculpture began to stir. 

She groaned and stretched, finally taking her first steps off her marble pedestal just as Pygmalion returned home. As he opened the door, she met his eyes with a warmth and vitality that took his breath away. 

Overwhelmed by joy, Pygmalion embraced his newfound bride, marveling at the miracle that brought her to him. He kissed her deeply, passionately, the love of a man who has found his perfect match. Their love was pure and true, and even as the years passed and her skin began to sag and her nose grew crooked, never once did she seem anything but perfect in the eyes of Pygmalion.