He whittled away at the wood, chipping the reddened oak to reveal the curves of his creation. Sitting with his legs folded beneath him, the damp earth pressing against his trousers. He stretched, wiggling his toes so that the cool wind swept gently between them.

  Chips flew away as he worked, the thing slowly taking shape before his eyes. She… she would love this. After all, it was her.

  He smiled, reflecting on old times. A dance, slow and sweet, feet shifting through a meadow’s wild grass. Waking up from a night of slumberless rest, her soul pressed against his. Her laugh, her cry, her breath.

  After this, she would love him again. Finally.

  He thought back to her image, enveloped in the thought of her beauty. Her gorgeous brown eyes, that mass of amber curls that fell perfectly to frame her face. Her slender waist, perfectly shaped for his hands to hold. Oh, the beauty in her. He sighed as his thoughts drifted to her vibrant, cherry red lips. Still – to this very day – she tasted of tangy, sweet cherries.

  He continued to carve, his hand taking full control of the mahogany hilt. He barely thought of what he did, nor how he did it. The work simply flowed, his creation unfolding before his very eyes.

  The knife pressed, reminding him of her love. It was gentle against his hands, yet constant. Each stroke through the dense wood brought a subtle throb of sensation, like the waves of the sea coming back to shore. Women were like the waves of the sea, he realized. They came and went, came and went – yet at the end of the day, they always came back.

  She was like the ocean, in all of her glory. She was the salt in his hair, the sweet stench that crept through his nostrils. She was the dampness at his bottom, and she was every thought running through his head. A perfect constant, throbbing gently.

  Beauty, beauty. She was gorgeous – every inch of her. From her lips, to her breasts, to the very bottoms of her feet. To taste her, to taste her: tangy, sweet cherries. How did she think he could live without her? How could she leave?

  He didn’t want to think about those questions. That feeling, the one where his chest compressed and his throat tried to suffocate him from the inside out – he never wanted to feel it again. Nearly every day now, he felt that feeling. It was the sudden, encumbering sorrow, the kind that made him want to scream, then cry. The dreadful feeling of being alone. Abandoned.

  Yet, she was here now. She left, but only momentarily. Just as the ocean waves, she returned, still tasting of that bitter-sweet cherry. And now, she couldn’t go, not anymore. Even if she wanted to leave, she would not. He smiled. She was his.

  He continued to work, letting his thoughts run askew as his hands flew. Father said he had a real talent for wood-work, but mother never liked the concept of him with knives. Something about the way he thought, the way he acted. Was that wrong? Are knives dangerous, frightening? Should he stop using them, even if they make him happy?

  He turned his attention back to the work before him, watching as the mass began to take shape. There they were. Those eyes, that mess of hair that somehow still looked perfect, even in chipped wood. Her curves…

  He had to quell the thoughts before they overcame him, shuddering slightly. Even in inanimate, wooden form, she was everything he’d ever wanted.

  Yet – she was gone. Here, but gone.

  Do all Angels go to Heaven? He hoped she wouldn’t. She should stay with him, comforting him through his sorrow. That would be the right thing to do, a symbol of her inner purity.

  “It’s you,” he quivered as he watched his hands work through teary eyes. “You haven’t left, you’re still with me.” And it was her. Deceased or not, she was still with him. She wouldn’t go to Heaven, not anymore. She was right with him, trapped in her small, wooden frame.

  He comforted himself, forcing a few slow, relieving breaths. After a time, he began to feel better, a sense of calm drifting over him in gentle waves. He was floating now, letting the ocean sweep him one way or another.

  He wasn’t sure why she hurt him. It wasn’t obvious that she would, nor did it seem rational that she did. So, he only knew one thing. The knife in his hands, dampening with sweat as he continued to chip away. Once again, he cut at her figure. This time, instead of flesh, he cut at the wood between his dirtied, bloodied fingers.

  A sweaty dagger made for inaccurate work, though he toiled regardless. Her entire beauty was captured in one simple, fist-sized piece of lumber. Finally.

  “Don’t ever leave me again,” he whispered. A tear rolled off his bottom lip, falling to dot the oak in his hands. Another landed next to it, and then another.

  “I love you.”

  It was too much, the emotions like a thousand miniscule lights all pointed into the retina’s of his unwilling eyes. He shook, forcing himself to swallow. The saliva went down painfully, forced against his tightened throat, but it prevented the scream from escaping. He then stood, taking the wood in his hands.

  As he walked, he reminisced. A life of peace, of comfort. Of happiness. He approached her corpse, leaving the wood in her arms. Seeing the red at her side, a perfect cut – as if whittled – he smiled from satisfaction.

  Still, she did not smile, nor did she acknowledge him. He hated her for it. He hated her for a myriad of things. Her death was just one of them.

  Maybe the waves would finally stop. Would he be happy, then? Would the peace return, if the water did, once and for all?

  He sighed, slumping to the floor. He rested a hand against her face, the back of his hand cooled by her skin. That’s the thing about dead people, he realized. They’re cold, silent. They don’t move, and they don’t feel. They’re just… dead.

  In his other hand, he twisted the knife between his fingers, watching as it rolled over itself, again and again. It glimmered slightly, the blade dulled from flesh and wood. He felt another stream run down his cheek, a cool thing. It felt like her, like the newly deceased. Is this what death is? A cold and steady trail of sorrow?

  Despite his melancholy, he smiled. It was comforting, somehow. He streamed tears, and she streamed crimson. Even now, he was just like her, and she was just like him.

  He sighed, slumping a bit. Just audible over his exhale, he heard a Heavenly whisper.

  “You stayed.”

  Tangy and sweet, just like blood-red cherries.