I wake in a cold sweat, the afterimages still echoing in my mind. Her face melts from the arcane geysers bursting from my uncontrolled magic, leaving only a skull dripping with what appears to be wax but I know is the remnants of her face. I heave a few breaths as the headache accompanying the nightmare settles in. Minutes pass as I try to relax but soon the throbbing fades much as I envision her heart beat did until there is nothing left. It's always the same nightmare, every night. The knife I keep at my bedside beckons me, calling for an end. Instead I take it and slice my palm, pressing the wound to the symbol carved into my headboard of a bloodshot eye with teeth for eyelashes.
Many weeks later, the nightmares no longer come. Sleep seldom does either. This seemed advantageous at first. Over time, however, important details have begun to slip away from me. The curve of her lips. The way she styled her hair. The playful sparkle in her eyes as she smiled. Even now, I try to memorialize what I can before it's all gone. As of yet, I have not been successful. I glance over my shoulder at the first four attempts lying face up on tables. Each of them have distinct differences, but none of them are quite perfect. None capture her.
My mind wanders as I turn back to my stitching. Though every little thing evokes incomplete memories, they still bring a smile to my face. Even something as insignificant as learning how to sew. If she only knew that teaching me to mend clothes would later be used as I do so now...a wave of emotion nearly overcomes me. She was so vibrant with life. The things she took joy in were always so simple. I look at the cold flesh sitting on the table in front of me. The imperfect seams at the joints of the corpse are jarring. It almost seems an atrocity, a terrible caricature of everything that she was. Slowly, I finish the stitching. There is simply no other option. How does a man just abandon everything that was important to him and move on?
I finally finish with the mundane part of the task in front of me. I focus my mind, settling into the mental frameworks necessary for the ritual. I call out with my mind and soul as I make a long cut along the palm of my hand. Blood pours into grooves on the table where the corpse rests, my life feeding it's life. An otherworldy red and green glow works it's way across the table as the magics begin to take hold. I feel Them watching me.
Weakening from bloodloss as my life energy continues to pour onto the table, I carve a complex series of runes into the flesh of my left palm and murmer an incantation harnessing the last of my energy. Pulsing black ichor begins to weep from the walls as I press the bloody symbols on my palm to my creation's forehead. The corpse thrashes and arches it's back on the table.
Her eyes snap open.
