The Pygmalion Complex

A Story by JayMel

A boy falls in a love with a statue. He might be a bit obsessed.

Deborah. The tongue twists when uttering her name. Three beautiful syllables entwined into a single marvellous word. Deborah. My love. The better part of my soul. She was not just a heart-warming beauty, a closely guarded secret of the modern world. She was an angel of perfection, a bright glow in the darkness of man. She was mine, my small piece of joy.

I first witnessed the delight of her face when I was nine years old. My mother and father, on a lazy Sunday with nothing to do, were driven to show me the insides of a renowned art museum they’d been to many times before. They were art connoisseurs themselves and wished to show me the intricacies of the craft. However upon realising where we were headed, my first instincts were not to go. SpongeBob was playing on the TV and missing an episode was like missing breakfast. But as was often the case as a child, I didn’t have a choice.

The car ride was full of complaining, closed to exploding into a full blown tantrum. My mother managed to stop me however with her usual terse tone, threatening to ban me from the television if I kept up with my unruly way. So I sat in the backseat as we drove on, arms crossed, forehead creased, sulking the whole way.

The museum was rather boring, truth be told. Grim and lifeless paintings, helpful splashes of color here and there, gangly sculptures and pictures of things or people relevant to some form of strange artistic expression that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around at such a young age. But she changed all that, blew the whole museum away, making my missing of a cartoon about a sponge worth it. The pouting had vanished and my eyes had grown wide. She was beautiful and I couldn’t help but stare.

Her face, chiseled by God himself, was immaculate, sharp, defined, with high cheekbones and a soft chin that almost brought tears to my eyes. Her hair, wavy locks that smoothed down her shoulders, wisps across her neck, was silky and alive even within their stone constraints. And her body, a slim temptress that even at my prepubescent age caused a stir in my heart and loins, was as perfect a thing I had ever laid my eyes on. She had a hand to the sky, the other pointing to the ground, and her arms were positioned gracefully, with elegance, at one with her natural frame. Her head was tilted to the side, looking almost curious, as if this was her first time on Earth, somehow having fallen from the astral plains of heaven. And her eyes, those darling black eyes, were on me, the cool starkness a reflection, a mirror. There was I in her eyes, and her in mine.

We were lovers from very first sight.

My parents had chuckled upon noticing my stare, as I had also stopped, hand trying to escape my mother’s grasp. But she took a firm hold on me, ‘You can’t go running around the place. The people in charge will get very angry.’

But I wasn’t going to run. Why would I when I had found perfection, the woman of my dreams? Of course these concepts pertaining to love and the completion of oneself in another were not known to me at the time. However, what I did have on that first day of spotting her were those true, raw feelings that start at the beginning of a relationship, those flightful fantasies that keep us stuck in our head at all manners of the day and night thinking constantly of our lover, no matter if we had seen them a week ago or an hour. I was hooked. No, I had sunken, deep down into the depths of my emotions that, at the time, didn’t seem to end. Even now I have barely found the edge. That’s why I will always love my Deborah, till the day I pass from this plane and into her world.

Our first time meeting was cut short as my mother and father wished to show me other things; apparently a painting by Pablo Picasso had come into the hands of the museum. I was pulled away from my love, forced to admire a disturbed and odd smattering of shapes and colors supposed to be resembling a portrait of a man. But it wasn’t just this painting that was ugly, so much so I couldn’t bear to look at it. Everything around, every painting and sculpture and presiding piece of art, now had a tinge to it, an edge of decrepit aversion which made me wish I could gouge my eyes out. Even my mother’s face was ghoulish in comparison to the beauty I’d glimpsed before, and that was the very first time I wished I was old enough to have my own freedom to leave my parent’s side.

We didn’t go back to her on that day. But I begged my parents for us to visit the museum again, and with a smile they said we would. A week passed before I saw her again. And every week since I have at least seen her once. Deborah, named by her sculptor, inscribed on the plaque near her feet. Such a lovely name. No, not just lovely. Heavenly.

My love for her grew and grew with each sighting, and the older I became the more I saw her. Most days I would wake early in the morning to take the half-hour train ride to her, just as the museum was opening. And I left in the twilight of day, as the guards rounded people up pushing them to the exits. Barry, an old guard then and now who did rounds in the section of Deborah, allowed me to stay late a couple of times a week whenever he was on duty. We’d become friends through brief instances of chat as he had noticed my resolve towards staying in the museum as long as I could. He even knew as to why I wanted to stay, about Deborah, and although I was able to keep the length of my obsession under wraps in the beginning, over the months and years he slowly came to understand. He’s the only one who knows, actually. And the only one who has never judged me for the love that keeps my blood hot, my heart from stopping.

So when he approached me, sad faced and gloomy, on a day during the year I had turned nineteen, I knew at once deep in my stomach that whatever he wanted to talk about concerned Deborah. We only ever talked about our relationships, Barry often speaking of the failed marriages of his past.

‘Tim. Ah. I got some news ‘bout Deborah.’

I sat on a bench conveniently close to her spot in the room, a copy of Madame Bovary on my lap. I looked up from the page to the stout old man and his weathered face. His expression did not bode well.

‘Yes?’ I questioned simply. I assumed he was going to say something along the lines of her needing to be restructured in some way due to damage, although I didn’t see any from my numerous looks that day, but deep down I knew it was something else, I just didn’t want to admit it at the time.

‘You see, Tim. Uh. There’s a new museum opening in Europe, also owned by the owner here. She’s decided to move a few of the pieces ‘round here to show overseas, ya know to show America’s flair, I guess. And, uh. She’s moving it. Her, I mean.’

‘Sorry. Who is she moving?’ I asked innocently and quietly, a rough rubber ball pitted in my stomach. I didn’t want him to say it. To say her name.

‘Deborah. The museum owner’s moving Deborah. She’s getting shipped out in a week. I’m...I’m real sorry, Tim. I know she’s real close to you.’ Barry turned to leave, steps echoing off the walls, leaving me alone to think. Of course, there was nothing I could think of, in concerns of what to do. Until, when the last steps of Barry’s faded into nothing, I heard a voice.

Don’t let them take me.

My eyes shot up, legs twitching, book falling to the floor. I studied her face, watching her lips, seeing if the stone had moved. But she was silent. Quiet. As still as she’d always been.

But I heard her voice. I knew I did. I just didn’t want to admit it. Admitting of one’s craziness is like shutting oneself in a cell and throwing away the key. From where I am now I can see that a crazy man’s best friend is himself, his lovers the cloying thoughts and ideas sprawled in his mind like a cascade of warm pleasantries.

I tried not to freak out. I had enough self-awareness that I understood being in love with a statue wasn’t exactly normal. But I could at least pride myself in knowing I was a well-educated young man, my mind at full capability most days of the week.

I picked my book up from the ground, running a hand through my hair. For the first time I was scared to look up at her, not knowing what I might see, or might hear.

She’s being taken away from me, the thought, the pain inside pushed me to study her again, her utter beauty and design. Never have I seen a girl, on the streets in passing or on television or the internet, even comparable to her. To this day I’m not sure what exactly allured me so. All I know is she was my one and only love. However, that did not explain why I was beginning to hear her speak.

After collecting myself, I sat back down, trying to read again, taking careful peeks at her so often, making sure her posture and display hadn’t changed, arms having not moved in any way. And I would have known if they had, even if it was slight. I wasn’t thorough with most things, but when it came to Deborah not one detail went unnoticed. I could even tell when somebody had touched her, the clear indication of grimy handprints on her body and legs. I would often tell Barry afterwards to keep a firmer watch on any kids that came through, trying to keep the anger from my voice. They’ll be a bunch of hands on her once she’s being moved to leave. Taking away my Deborah. I tried to not think of it, but everyone knows the difficulties in stopping a thought once it gets running.

My eyes found hers, those coal dark eyes, and the sweetness in my heart longed for her touch. I stood, moving closer, forgetting myself, the waves of future pain hitting me slowly, tenderly, with a hint of remorse. There was a tear in my eye as I gazed up at her. She was a head taller than me, but I didn’t mind. She made me feel protected, warm, her view of the world much greater than mine every could be. I don’t want to leave you, her soothing whisper wrapped around me.

I stiffened again, breathing irregular, heartbeat impossible to calm. But something told me this was real. It had to be. Why else have I been so enamoured by her all these years? There had always been something different about her. And I now knew what.

‘I won’t let them take you.’ I told her, moving a hand up to brush the delicate shine of her neck. That was a promise I vowed to keep.

On the day she was meant to be taken, I laid in wait near the loading dock to the museum, watching her carefully guided and pushed into the back of a truck, along with other paintings moving to the foreign museum. Barry had told me what time and what day she was planned to be moved, perhaps thinking I simply wanted to know the timeframe I had to spend with Deborah last. I won’t blame him for such folly views. He hadn’t been in love for years.

The plan was quite simple in my head. I had even gone over it with Deborah several times as

the week persisted. I felt that if I plugged up all the holes in this mental plan of mine, perhaps nothing wrong would occur in the physical world of reality.

My plan was to steal the truck, drive away quick as I could, then head to the lower regions of Mexico where we could live in peace. I had about two thousand dollars saved up as I never spent my money on anything besides clothes and other essentials, and I was banking on the hope the American dollar was as rich in Mexico as I’d been led to believe. Deborah agreed with the plan, saying it was excellent, speaking sweet honeyed words that warmed my insides and reassured my resolve. But now that I was faced with the reality of the situation, the realization of the madness I was intending urged a thought to capitulate and succumb to the simple fact that Deborah was no longer mine. Another had taken her, and perhaps I just needed to accept that, and understand that love is not as far reaching as I wanted it to be. But then I heard her call to me.

Please, Tim. Please. Don’t let them take me away. I don’t want to be taken away. I don’t want to leave you.

I waited, fidgeting with my hands as my heart saw fit to impersonate my very own myocardial infarction. I waited until the group of men carrying her had rolled down the shutter and turned, chatting and laughing about something. The man sitting in the driver's seat had gotten out, leaving the door slightly ajar, the engine running. This is it. This is my chance.

I snuck towards the loading dock, crouching low to avoid the guard in the security box who was busy on his phone. I glanced quickly around to make sure no one had seen me, but as it was early in the morning there didn’t seem to be anyone else besides the group of men near the truck. I was in the clear. I could actually do this. Deborah was mine, and no one would tear us apart ever again.

But then the driver, who had only joined them for a second, was beginning to turn, stepping out behind from the back of the truck, he saw me.

I froze. I was near the hood of the truck, a hand placed on the front, the engine thrumming beneath my fingers. We locked eyes, and he must have seen something in mine. He must have known what I was up to.

‘Hey you!’ He shouted. The men behind wandered around to get a look at me. ‘What are you doing here? This is museum property!’

A moment of silence. Then I rushed for the door.

I heard them yell, screaming curses, obscenities. And as I was pulling myself up into the seat, hand on the wheel, my weight suddenly was pulled out under me, leg trapped in another’s grasp. I kept my balance on the rungs of the truck, and kicked with my trapped leg at whoever was trying to steal me away.

‘F**k!’ A man grunted, and again I pushed myself onto the seat. I managed to shut the

door behind me, holding it firmly so they weren’t able to pull it open themselves, then used my other hand to shift into drive before stepping down on the accelerator. The truck jolted forward, and banging fists echoed off the sides metal frame. The parking barrier near the security booth was down, but of course there was no time to stop and wait. I crashed through, noticing the shock on the security guard’s face, the man no longer on his phone. It was almost comical.

I laughed as we drove away. I was free. We were free, on the thankfully not so busy city streets. Deborah was whispering to me, her heart elated, the words sweet.

Thank you, Tim. Thank you so much. We can be together now. Together forever.

Together forever. That had such a pleasant ring to it. However it’s unclear as to why I believed the museum staff would give up once we were away from the loading dock. I suppose the fantasies in my head had clouded my judgement of reality. But I can safely say soon after, as I drove down the lengthy streets, that I was in a spot of trouble. The sound of sirens jolted me into existence, eyes to the rearview mirror in an instant, hands growing tight around the steering wheel. It was clearly obvious the cops would have been called. Why wouldn’t they, in a situation like this. A possibly priceless statue stolen away by a mad man, along with the truck it was secured in. Grand theft auto including a count of art theft. The dangers and numerous pitfalls of the situation were exquisitely apparent.

The cars behind were dodging out the way to let the police through, and the two squad cars parked behind and to the side of me. One had an address system, and a voice spoke through the speaker.

‘Stop your vehicle now! Pull over to the side of the road! Pull over now!’

My heart was beating a mile a minute, my hands shaking and sweating, eyes darting everywhere. I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? Deborah had gone silent, at the worst possible time as well. I was approaching a set of traffic lights, the color going yellow. But I couldn’t stop, not even if I wanted to. My foot was stuck, my body frozen. The light went red, and I continued forward. In fact, stupidly, I had pushed down on the accelerator. Speeding into traffic. I thought maybe I could get to the other side, the traffic eventually cutting off the police in pursuit. A horn started to blare, and when I turned I saw ute swerving towards me.

The whole world rumbled. A guttered screech of metal. My head slammed forward, smashing into the steering wheel. Everything went black, noise circling a drain and falling into a void. I had disappeared, along with all my worries and expectations.

I woke dazed, being pulled from the wreck. The truck had capsized, on one side, and I had to be pulled out from the windshield. I didn’t quite understand what was happening, but I allowed myself to be dragged around, voices and questions washing over me like a warm current. When I was eventually being helped to a police cruiser, the cuffs not on me just yet, I remember looking over to the truck, the back of it. A sedan was crushed to the side, the driver in hysterics, but at the back two officers were pulling up the shutter. Deborah. I remember clearly that as the shutter rolled up something pale and grey rolled out in turn. I remember seeing her cold, cracked eyes, face torn, chipped to shreds as one of the officers picked her head up, inspecting it slowly.

Deborah. That’s all I could think. Of her name, of her face. Of her memory. Deborah. Deborah, Deborah, Deborah. I hoped for her to whisper back, to tell me that everything would be okay. But she was silent.

Silent as stone.