Reality

The bed was a hot sticky mess. Oliver recoiled from it, disgusted by himself, but also impressed. He looked at the end of his bed, ready to greet her this morning, but there was nothing there. His heart sunk and he felt his anxiety crawling its way back through his body, clawing at his insides, climbing slowly within him, ready to take over. But before it could reach his throat, he saw her. She was leaning up against his bedroom wall, one leg perched against it, her hip jutting out slightly, while she examined her fingernails.

Could it be? Had his dream come true? The girl he so desired, here in the flesh, real finally, for him to have and hold forever? Oliver ran towards her, his scrawny pale body was exposed but what did he care, all he could think of was having her- the girl he so deserved, the girl he designed, moulded, created.

"Is it true?" He asked as he stood next to the beautiful woman.

She cocked her head to one side and turned to face him. Her eyes ran over him from head to toe, taking in his pale white skin, handful of chest hair, Frankenstein pants and Superman socks. A cold sneer took over her face, mutating it to the point that he could hardly recognise his own creation. She stood taller, her chin jutting up a little and then rolled her eyes before turning away from the boy, who was shaking violently from lust.

"My love!"

Oliver reached for her hand, hardly able to control his throbbing desire, but she pulled her hand away, her snarl contorting her perfect face once more.

"Don't be scared beautiful," Oliver almost begged as he stood awkwardly next to the naked beauty.

She turned to face him, her eyebrows arched and her nose scrunched up into a hideous position. "Scared?" She mouthed, although no sound uttered from her lips, she seemed to laugh silently  before walking to the other side of the room.

Oliver's breath quickened and he curled his sweaty palms into fists. That old feeling was coming back. At first emptiness, hollowness, a void that was begging, pleading to be filled. The longing that ached and wept everyday but had to stay hidden and concealed. Silenced. But then a new emotion took over. A hot red, burning sensation that drove him forward, lighting a fire inside him. It refused to be silent. It demanded to be heard.

"How dare you reject me! I made you! I own you!" He found himself shouting at the woman.

The woman smiled devilishly. She lifted her arm to her chest in mock question, as if to say, "who me?", before sitting at the end of his bed and turning away from him once more.

The anger was growing inside of him. Don't let her speak to you that way. How dare she dismiss you? You made her! She should be begging for your attention! Teach her a lesson she won't forget.

Oliver found himself smiling as he looked at the naked woman on his bed. So weak, so vulnerable, so alone. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and felt her struggle and shake under his grip, but he held on tighter, pressing his fingers into her soft flesh. She looked up at him, the eyes soft and wide spaced, the nose tiny and upturned, the lips full and rosy. Crack. His fingers pushed through her skin and she began to break and clatter. Her arms crumbling to fragments and sharp edges around him. Oliver gasped as he tried to hold onto her waist and keep her together, to save her, to help her, but his clumsy fingers plunged through her stomach, causing the body to crack and crumble until she was broken into hundreds of tiny pieces on his bedroom floor. A perfect foot lay next to his unwashed underwear, a curved elbow discarded next to his bin, a face lying in wait in the middle of his room.

Oliver fell to the ground and cowered, becoming smaller and smaller as the familiar feeling came back to him. The emptiness. It stretched out like an endless black hole, sucking everything into it, until Oliver was left like a shadow, curled into a tiny ball. The regret fell like a waterfall over him, pushing and pulling him in a hundred directions, reminding him of his mistake. How could he let her go?

The face lay untouched in the room for some hours. The morning red glow changed to a pure whiteness, no clouds or sky in sight, just a white blur like a paintbrush had been spread across the sky, painting everything white, but the face remained the same. It wasn't as Oliver remembered, with full pouting lips, open in a slight expression of innocent pleasure. Instead she was smirking. Her lips in a tight thin upturned smirk, the eyes no longer wide spaced and vacant, but narrowed, calculating, knowing. She had chosen her own face. And Oliver couldn't change it. He lifted the face and cupped it in his hand, staring intently at the crude, malicious face that looked back at him. This wasn't his creation at all. The lips moved ever so slightly, into what could have been a pout, Oliver leant closer to it, his own lips mimicking the face's but then the lips spoke.

"You're missing the point."