A light drizzle discourages visitors from lingering in the plaza where a bizarre statue commemorates my death.
Unplanned and unprovoked, my murder occurred on a dreary day like today. My brilliant lover, whose sculptures were spawned by anger and frustration, crossed the line between creativity and insanity and I, the reliable recipient of his verbal and physical persecution, became the spectral inspiration for his last work.
Originally conceived as a penitent monument to our undying love, his commission morphed into a confession of guilt. The sculpture of my mad lover racing from his sin, my trailing body hand-locked to his ankle, publicly confirms the horror of his act.
(Photo by David Stewart, Friday Fictioneers, February 15, 2013.)