Pyotr was beautiful.

People threw themselves at him, dying to be acknowledged by a man who felt nothing, loved nothing, and noticed nothing. He was far to busy to be bothered with mortal offerings or digressions, a distant god worshipped by all who believed that beauty, truth and pain had a human form.

He was always distant from himself too. He never indulged in beauty, or dwelled on the eloquence of words. When he did speak, it was precise, direct like needles on your ears. Tiny. Sharp. Like him.

He had little hands, thin fingers, no gold or silver or pewter or nickel.

They loved him because he was immaculate, clean, and they all wanted to be the one to spoil him, like old Japanese men bidding on the precious geisha. There is a lure in undoing the perfectly tied bow, of the first black swipe at the porcelain canvas. There was a lure in breaking Pyotr down, taking the perfect, the innocent, the GODLY and making it ache and burn and bleed like you did, making him FEEL, god damn it, the same frustrations and disappointments that plagued every single other human on the forsaken face of this Earth.

He never ever smiled.

His personal pains were unlike the simple distractions that bit and skittered across kitchen floors when the florescent tubes ignited. Pyotr, Pyotr was afflicted in ways they couldn’t begin to understand, and like a caricature of Christ, his suffering had made him greater than.

The agonies of the past were never discussed, but were acknowledged on a first name basis. You can guess at the nature of these past crimes. Temple-greying mothers who left the flour handprints on your face and the sting in your ears. Uncles and step-daddies all too keen on the passing of your bedtime hours. Sourly disappointed friends, disdainful strangers, bitter, futile self-hatred.

There was no self left to hate. Just a small man blindly flitting through a life he had long ago abandoned, surrounded by monsters gussied up as friends and would-be lovers trying to bring Pyotr back to himself to posses and destroy all over again.

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This is just a note, though it seems sinful it has to be in here.

Once again, Pyotr is pronounced Peter.

It’s the Russian spelling, and I like it better.

Peter means “rock” from its Latin base.

Questions, comments, concerns, improvements, suggestions, ideas, criticism? Welcome.