Cemented

 

I held my head high as I strutted down the path, cane in hand and hat tilted just right. The early morning sun bounced off my bronze-painted face, casting glints of light as I moved. Birds chirped curiously from above, perhaps baffled to see a statue walking through the park with such confidence.

I puffed on my imaginary cigar, savoring the illusion. My cane clicked rhythmically against the cobbled path, keeping time with my theatrical steps. I waved at a passerby whose jaw dropped in shock. Poor boy must’ve just woken up to see a bronze statue wave at him. Reactions like that? It's always worth it.

As a live statue, I’m used to awe and wonder. It comes with the act. But today, something nudged me to explore—maybe the crispness of the morning or the feeling that the city still held secrets. My feet led me to a place I had never entered before: the old cemetery on the edge of downtown.

I’d been in this city for almost a year, performing on sidewalks and street corners, but I had never walked through this overgrown place. The gate was rusted open, groaning softly in the breeze. I stepped inside. The ground was cracked, tombstones tilted, and covered in crawling ivy. The deeper I walked, the more silent the world became like the birds and breeze held their breath.

The cemetery was ancient. Crumbling stone angels loomed with eyeless sockets, and moss blanketed the graves like a thick shroud. Still, I crossed through, figuring it was a shortcut. Eventually, I reached the other side and merged with the morning crowd on the city sidewalk.

Soon, I found my spot on the corner, stepped up on my pedestal, and struck my pose. Today, I was Sherlock Holmes—magnifying glass in hand, trench coat stiff with bronze paint. Last week, I was Apollo, and before that, Iron Man. The characters changed, but the show stayed the same. People laughed, gasped, took pictures, and dropped bills into my tin. A group of tourists gathered; I subtly shifted my posture. Tourists meant cash.

The day passed in a blur of flashes, footsteps, and faint applause. By sunset, my joints ached, my skin burned under layers of stiff paint, and my smile faded beneath the mask. I counted my earnings, packed my things, and started to walk back to my apartment.

The sky had soured, turning gray and heavy. The humidity made the paint crack and flake on my arms. Then, the rain came. Thunder boomed like a drumbeat from the heavens. Lightning danced above the rooftops.

I pulled my coat tighter and looked for shelter. That’s when I noticed the cemetery gate again. I must’ve taken a wrong turn. Still, it struck me that this was the quickest path home. With little hesitation, I stepped inside.

The air grew colder almost instantly. The drizzle barely made it through the twisted, skeletal trees. The path slouched beneath my weight, the moss squelching like wet fabric. My heart thudded louder with each step.

Lightning flashed—brief, brilliant, and terrible.

That’s when I saw it.

A statue. Not a grave angel or mourning woman, but... a man. Bronze. Frozen mid-step, one arm outstretched as if waving. His face twisted in terror.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

I recognized that pose.

It was Tim—Old Tim, the wizard performer from the main boulevard. He hadn't been around for weeks. We’d all thought he moved to another city. But there he was, immortalized in horror.

My eyes darted around as another flash hit the sky.

More statues.

A woman in a ballerina pose, eyes wide with fear. A man mid-bow, his hands gripping a now-cracked violin. One with a hawk mask, half-shattered, revealing cemented teeth underneath.

They were all live performers. Artists. People I knew.

The realization hit me like ice: they hadn’t left—they’d become part of this place.

I turned to run. My feet skidded on the wet stone. Another bolt of lightning seared the sky. My pulse pounded like a war drum.

And then... movement.

The statues were no longer frozen. Slowly, they shifted. Heads turned. Eyes locked on me. A dozen unmoving faces somehow twisted into silent screams, and their arms began to rise.

“Stop,” I whispered to no one, stumbling backward. The shadows twisted, stretching like claws. With every step I took, the statues seemed closer—closing in, surrounding me like a ritual circle.

I slipped. Fell hard. Pain bloomed in my elbow, but adrenaline kept me going. I scrambled to my feet—only to feel it.

Cold.

Crawling up my legs. Cement. Hardening.

I looked down—my feet were turning to stone. The paint on my skin bubbled and hissed. My scream caught in my throat. I was being sealed, slowly and cruelly.

One final lightning bolt lit up the sky—and I saw my reflection in a puddle.

Half of my face was already stone.

---

I woke up gasping.

Sweat drenched my sheets. My feet ached. My back throbbed. But I was in my apartment, safe.

I staggered to the bathroom. My face was pale. There was no paint, no stone, no signs of the storm. Just me, shaken and alive.

I rinsed my face and looked up into the mirror.

And froze.

Above my brow was a jagged, gray streak of cement blending into my hairline.

My fingers trembled as I touched it.

It was real.

A part of me was no longer mine.

A part of me was cemented—forever.