Eternity on Paper [COMPLETE]

A Night in the Iron Maiden

He circled the device, gliding his fingertips across her well-crafted surface. Her face was covered by a shroud, one that was built onto her face. It would remain that way, affixed forever and never revealing what he was sure was a breathtaking beauty.

It doesn't matter anyway, he thought. It didn't matter because he loved her anyway.

He reached the front of the device and slowly pulled open its doors. A beautiful barrage of silver spikes jutted out from every surface of her interior but the base.

His eyes lustfully pored over every inch of her that he was allowed to see. A strip of moonlight penetrated the room through a small window and made her glisten brighter than the sun itself. He memorized every bump and scratch and traced every crease, adoring every part of her that he could see. He wasn't blind to her imperfections, but they were unimportant. He, too, was imperfect, after all.

His admiration was lasting, as he endured the pain in his legs and the numbness in his feet for hours to stare at her form. She, however, didn't care. She didn't care because she never did and never could. It was her design to be self-indulgent, he didn't blame her for that.

Slowly, he stepped inside of her and took a moment to appreciate the feeling.

He turned to face the open doors. There was only one way to shut them, and he was aware of that. Inching forward, he grabbed a spike from the inside of each door in his hands. Through folded lips, he winced but braved the searing pain to slam the doors shut.

This was the moment he longed for, there was no greater closeness than this. And yet, now that he was inside of her, he felt empty.

He wasn't enough for her; how could he be? One day his flesh would rot away, and his bones would crumble to the floor, leaving her unfulfilled and wanting more. She would always want more, it was the way she was forged.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he stroked the teeth that lined her interior. A thin line of crimson flowed from the tip of his digit down his already red palms. More than the spikes around him, the familiar torment of mourning that which he never had and never lost agonized him.

He buried his face in his hands, painting his face with the pain she had wrung from him. This is how it had always been and how it would always be.

He sat in the tight circle on the floor, patiently and quietly. The time passed all too quickly while fleeting fatigue continuously failed to plague him. When he could hear the birds sing, he knew time was up.

Shakily, he rose and balanced himself. With a deep breath, he impaled his hands on the spikes and pushed open the doors, crying out as he did so.

The blinding light of the morning sun greeted him as he stepped outside of the device. He turned to steal another glance of her majesty. She didn't shine as brightly in the light as she did in the dark, but she was still just as gorgeous to him.

With a yearning sigh, he turned and left. He would return the next night as he always had, bleeding evermore for her until the time would come that she wasn't enough for him.