The museum was a picture of serenity, silence, and the simple beauty of humanity’s endless and timeless history. I sometimes wondered what it was exactly that made something human and alive; what defined a true, authentic soul? What would it feel like to have a raw, bleeding heart in my chest where only cold metal resided? It was oftentimes during the quiet nights where I would question what I was made for, and how it felt to observe me. 

There was something beautifully messy about feeling. There was something strange in the way humans defined love and desire. I watched it every day through linked fingers and long shared gazes, little moments of tenderness where two people assumed others were not watching. But of course, I always was.

The sculpture hall was filled with unfeeling souls and unbeating hearts. I was one of the fortunate ones who had been given the gift of sight, my eyes carved from haunting white marble and permanently made to stare at the flickering lights above my form. I could catch a glimpse of my fingers, reaching towards an unachievable destination, as bronze as the day I was brought to life. 

I wondered what the meaning behind it was. I wondered what I had endlessly longed for in another life, only to fall short. Was it love I longed for? Unconditionally chasing, uncaring of whether the one I seeked ever slowed down? Did I continue to follow someone who only looked back to make sure I was still tearing down my heels, rupturing my lungs, yet never stopping to help? Was I once bound by an invisible string, dragging me along like fate’s twisted twin?

Or was it broken dreams that propelled me into the air, a need to find meaning and purpose in a life where it was never quite clear? Did I ever cry over shattered wings, unaware that they were still beautiful?

Was I torn apart by the pain of womanhood, the calls from the streets and wandering eyes? Did I hope to become more than a body,  wishing that somebody would care more for what I felt and knew? Had I thrown away my favorite skirt and cried as I scrubbed my skin clean of scars that would never quite go away?

The thought made me shiver internally, but it quickly disappeared as the doors opened for another day. There was a rush of voices and laughter, arousing a burst of excitement within me. Maybe, just maybe, I would find out who I was today. 

But that hope began to fade as time went on. Eyes seemed to run right over me, like I wasn’t even really there. I felt the warmth of human touch on my shoulders, my chest, the exposed skin of my thigh. The metal felt worn and tired, pretty bronze pigment melting away against greedy hands that laughed and made fun of the way I was unable to fight back against their touch. Laughing about how they did not need to ask the sculpture for permission before wearing her down, ignorant of the pain drawn by careless palms and cold, clammy fingertips. 

It didn’t quite make sense how someone who was not quite living could feel hurt, how stone eyes could water– how a heart that did not beat could break. I am a living canvas, white and naive. The brushes that assaulted me were vicious and dark, unable to leave pureness untouched. They hoped that they would leave a mark, something I would carry as part of me forever. I knew where the metal grew thin and light, where people liked to touch. That was why it hurt me so- that nobody had held my hand in the seven years I’ve been here. I have never been able to feel that kind of care or comfort, and I feared that if it ever happened I wouldn’t be able to recognize that the touch was kind.

I began to question what a human really was– a body to collect scars and feelings? A vessel where a heart resided, bleeding a little bit more every time someone got close enough to touch? 

I comforted myself by knowing that my chest was where my heart would be, if I had one. I told myself that the people were reaching out in an attempt to hold my heart in their hands, careful to keep it whole and unharmed. But then again, that was the scariest part of womanhood; to have someone reach towards you, and not be able to know whether it was for your heart or the body that enclosed it. 

“What do you think of this one, darling?” I startled at the sound of a voice so close to me. I strain to see a mother and her daughter, an adorable little girl with pigtails threaded in hope and eyes filled with the same purity I had lost with every touch.

“I like her,” the girl replied. “She kind of looks like you.”

I held my breath in metal lungs, wondering if I would finally learn something about my purpose. “Her name is Octavia.” The woman squinted at the plaque below my feet, the one that no one had ever bothered to read nor pay attention to. 

Octavia. If I could’ve smiled, I would have. It was such an insignificant thing– my name. But it was something I could be labeled as, something just my own. Nobody could take that away from me, for it could not be rubbed away like color or thinned down like metal.

“Can you lift me up, mum? I want to touch her hand.” Before I could even process the words, small, warm fingers had wormed their way into mine. I wanted to hold onto the feeling forever– of innocent touch sinking into my ice-cold skin, just for the sake of it.

But too soon, it is gone. Yet the color of my hand was just a touch lighter than it once was, evidence that love had once been there. Someone had touched me there. And although it wasn’t anywhere near where my heart might have been, I felt it as strongly as if she had reached inside of me and held my heart itself.

The girl leaves, but the woman remains behind. She studies my bronze form, the gold splattered over my chest and legs, the far-away mystery that I am eternally reaching for.

“I know how you feel,” she said quietly. “And I’m sorry that they took that from you.”

She reaches out her hand, setting it where many hands have been, yet it does not feel hollow like it usually does. It feels warm, like love and like home. She is touching the heart and soul that I do not possess, overwhelming the mind that doesn’t exist.

Even though I am supposed to be incapable of it, I swear I can feel my lips lift just a little. A picture of hope, rather than despair. A sculpture of a woman, rather than an object.