It was his fault, really. Have we not all at some point or another, staring through the clear glass to its motionless contents within, longed to reach out one finger and let it tip? Have we not all wanted just once to exert our will upon the defenseless and watch the cup tremble, hesitate, then succumb to gravity and tumble down to shatter its ruins upon the counter top? There is such beauty in the whole made undone, the fractured remnants lying useless in a pool of their liquid cargo. From stasis to chaos, chaos to stasis. Beautiful.
His fault, you see. His fault for bearing such porcelain flesh, such carven features, for skin and hair and teeth all tempting canvas white. Any other would have wondered, as I did, how one drop of color might mar or complete that image. Any other would have desired, as I did, to break the vessel and spill forth its precious essence. How can I be blamed when it is he who entices so? Beauty is not meant to remain static lest the eye grow accustomed and therefore bored; it must be in constant change, growth, decay. It was thus with him, for look how through blood and ruin he is transformed beyond the limits of mere mortality.
His fault, in the end, for not understanding. For not seeing soon enough, as I did, his latent possibility, that like the brimming glass he awaited only some force to push him from potential beauty to kinetic glory. My hands served the job well enough, with the tiles’ assistance.