Niobe, Pity to Your Children
By Dani Elliott
The first statue appeared three days before rent was due.
On his coffee table sat a statue carved from smooth, shining black marble, made in his exact likeness. It couldn’t have been larger than a loaf of bread, but it commanded the room as if it was a black hole sucking him in. From the soft set of his jaw to the mole sitting square between his shoulder blades, it was all him. The statue’s face was contorted into one of rage, the lines in his nose and forehead deepened with its grimace as it curled around its stomach in the fetal position.
Bile rose in the back of his throat as he was struck with a bolt of terror. He had no memory of making this- and even then, he wouldn’t have had the means. It felt like phantom gazes were crawling up and down his back; roaming, searching, but for what he had no clue.
He scrambled throughout the house, checking the locks and windows for any sign of tampering. Drawing his fingertips along all of the cracks in the doors and feeling for any weaknesses proved fruitless.
When he returned to the living room, the statue returned his stare.
Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he jabbed a cautious finger against it- yep, solid marble. It was warmer than expected, radiating heat that the rest of the house had been lacking since he had his gas shut off last week.
Common sense wailed at him in the back of his mind- call someone, anyone, something is incredibly wrong, he’s in danger, but the statue…
His gaze roamed over it, and he felt as if it was inspecting him, too.
It was so well made. It’d be a waste to let it rot in a dump after being used as evidence in a break-and-enter court case, assuming he even made it that far. Chances are that police would shoo him away when he tried to report the incident, anyway.
Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. For all his time at the slots and the mountain of scratch-offs he’s done, he has yet to win more than twenty bucks at a time, and now he’s two months behind on rent. This statue just might be the blessing he’s been praying for.
He hoisted the statue into his arms, wheezing at the weight. It was heavier than it looked, tugging him downwards with each step.
He ignored the screeching wails his car made as he started it up, tapping the fuel gauge and thanking his lucky stars when he saw that he still had a few gallons of gas left.
***
Entering the pawn shop was like entering a new world where the trees had been replaced by skyscrapers of magazines, the sky a smattering of comic pages stuck haphazardly to the ceiling. The pawnbroker behind the counter looked bored, smacking gum between their teeth as they flipped through a box of faded superhero comics.
He plunked the statue on the table, holding his breath as he watched the towers of memorabilia framing them wobble precariously.
“Are you getting this assessed?” The pawnbroker asked, not bothering to look up from their comic.
“Uhh… yes.”
They rolled their eyes and spun their chair around in one fluid motion to pull a pair of bright yellow dish gloves out of the mountain behind them. “So, you’re an artist?”
“What? No.”
They lifted a brow at him, mouth pulled into a tight line. He shuffled under their gaze and they dropped their attention back to the statue, poking at it. If they noticed the heat radiating off of the statue, they didn’t show it- instead, their air of disinterest had returned. “I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
He fought the urge to leap over the counter and let them have it. “Twenty?! For a hyper-realistic marble statue?! I- it looks just like me! That’s skill!”
The pawnbroker shrugged. “It’s pretty well made, sure, but who’s gonna buy it just to look at your ugly mug? You’d have a better shot selling this at an art show or something.”
He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t in the position to refuse any money, even an undercut as severe as this. He wordlessly held out his palm as the pawnbroker handed him a pair of tens.
***
No other gas station this side of the Mississippi had as large of a variety of lottery tickets as Lottie’s. It carried all the famous ones, like Powerball and Mega Millions, but it also had rarer ones like the Jackpot Joyride, Fortuna, and LottoMax. It gave him the best chance of walking away with at least something.
He ignored the blinking ‘E’ on his dashboard and made his way inside, grabbing a handful of scratch-offs from a variety of brands. It would be irresponsible to only grab one or two and lower his chances of winning, after all. He needed to get the cash for rent somehow.
In the parking lot, he went through the tickets one by one. Taking his thumbnail to the silvery coating revealed one cherry, then another, only for a sinking pit to open in his stomach when the last slot was a bright yellow star. The second was the same thing- cherry, cherry, star. Frantically, he began clawing at the coating, tossing the tickets to the wayside when all ten came back the same.
“You sold me duds!” He stormed back into the store, slamming the tickets against the counter.
The cashier glanced up from her phone, just as bored as the pawnbroker had been earlier. “What?”
“You sold me duds!”
She glanced at the tickets strewn about the counter, flaring her nostrils at the scene. “You lost.”
He stiffened, the tips of his ears growing hot. Obviously, he knew that- he wouldn’t be complaining if he’d won, after all. “Yeah, but they’re all the same! That has to be a misprint or something! They’re all different brands, too- aren’t you worried about this?”
The cashier shrugged, turning back at her phone as she pushed his lottery tickets into the trash can beside her. “Maybe they all use the same printer. I can’t just give you a refund because you lost the lottery. Better luck next time.”
***
The next morning, there was another.
This statue was posed on the stairs, sitting on the edge of the second step from the top. It was smooth black marble carved in his likeness yet again, the striking familiarity wrong, distorted, sickening. This statue was larger than the first, about half the size of his torso.
He considered doing a walkthrough of the house, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to scare away whoever or whatever was making these statues- it was all he had. Besides, he doubted he’d find anything.
He made his way back to the stairs and hoisted the statue up into his arms, struck with the heat emanating from it. It was hotter than the one from yesterday- or had he been colder? It caused sweat to bead along his skin, mimicking a string of pearls looped around his torso.
He shoved the statue into the trunk of his car, praying that he had enough gas to make it to the pawn shop. The engine sputtered and squealed as he rode down the driveway, freezing no more than an inch from the road.
He slammed his head against the horn, the subsequent screech not nearly as cathartic as he’d hoped. He stayed like that for a while, letting his nose drip and freeze before gathering the energy to drag the statue out of the trunk.
He rummaged around in his garage until he found a rusty metal wagon that was large enough to carry the statue. The front left wheel was loose and the back right one was jammed, but it was better than nothing.
***
The pawnbroker looked as bored as ever, scratching a feather pen against an old newspaper- probably the crossword. He dropped the statue on the counter, watching the memorabilia surrounding them shudder before settling.
The pawnbroker looked up with a grumble of annoyance. “Are you getting this assessed?”
He nodded.
They spun around, pulling the bright yellow dish gloves over their hands. Once again, they poked at the marble with the same level of interest that a toddler pushes brussel sprouts around on a plate. “… Fifteen bucks.”
Rage bubbled beneath his skin. Fifteen dollars for another perfect statue? “But you can’t get this anywhere else!”
The pawnbroker shrugged, jaw twitching as if suppressing a yawn. “There just isn’t a market for it. I’m doing you a favor, here.”
He gritted his teeth, holding out his hand as he was passed a ten and a five.
***
He stared at the gas canisters lined up on the lowest shelf in the back of the convenience store. The price stared back.
Fifteen dollars.
He glanced down at the bills in his wallet. Hamilton and Lincoln looked back.
Fifteen dollars.
He made his way to the lottery stand. He’d use his winnings to get a full tank.
He dragged his nail over the silvery coating right in front of the cashier, heart thrumming in his ears. Cherry… cherry… there’s that goddamned gold star. He snarled, tearing through the rest of them, finding that they were the same yet again.
“You sold me duds again!” He slammed the tickets on the counter.
The cashier propped her palm under her chin, watching him tantrum around the register, her eyelids heavy with boredom. “If you’re gonna complain so much, just don’t buy them. I’m not the one printing the tickets, so I don’t know what you think yelling at me’s gonna do.”
“I want a refund!”
“I can’t give you a refund just because you lost.”
He dragged his arm along the counter, swiping the display onto the ground into a shimmering pile of wrappers. Reviling in her shock, he pressed his face close to hers, gritting his teeth like a dog baring their fangs. “There! Since you need a reason to do your damn job!”
He stormed out of the convenience store, the sound of shocked silence interrupted by the deafening squeak of his wagon.
***
The next morning, he struggled to push open his bedroom door. It was like it had been welded shut in the night. A stomach-ache-inducing scraping squealed on the other side of the door- something had been pressed against the door, preventing it from moving.
Once he’d pushed the door open enough to wiggle his arm out, he reached around the door to feel what was keeping him trapped.
The same smooth stone he’d felt the last two mornings met his fingertips, but this time, it was scalding. He yanked his hand back, hissing at the burn.
This statue was full size, curled up into a ball with its hands masking its face as its back pressed against his door. It was as if it was bracing for something.
He didn’t bother doing a walk-through of the house; he didn’t care if his house was getting broken into at this point. He needed to have rent before midnight and it was already noon and he didn’t have a dime to his name.
He grabbed a pair of oven mitts from the kitchen so that he could lift the statue into the wagon, grimacing at the black spot it had burned into the wooden floor.
***
He heaved the wagon into the pawn shop, parking it beside the counter so that the broker could inspect it.
“Listen, man, I’m all about supporting small artists, but pawning off your pieces here isn’t a great way to get discovered.”
“They’re not-” He took a deep breath, shaking his head. It wasn’t worth it. “Just- how much can you give me?”
The cashier sighed, scrubbing their eyes before twirling around to pull the bright yellow dish gloves on. They poked at the statue, sighed, and shrugged.
“I’ll give you ten bucks, but this is the last one I’m taking. You’ll have to sell your art somewhere else.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab the pawnbroker by the shoulders and shake them until they came to their senses. Instead, he held out his palm and nodded.
***
“Don’t sell me duds this time, got it?”
The cashier shook her head a little, registering that she’d been spoken to. When she recognized who it was, the corners of her mouth drooped into a frown. “You’re the one picking them out.”
He slammed the tickets on the counter without another word.
She watched him claw at the tickets, scattering silvery glitter on the counter. Cherry, cherry…
“God DAMN it!” He slammed the tickets on the counter. “You asshole! I needed this for my rent! What, you think it’s funny?!”
The cashier didn’t look up from her phone this time.
***
That evening, he lay in bed staring at the clock above his headboard.
11:58 pm.
11:59 pm.
12:00 am. Midnight.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
This was it. He’d missed too many months of rent, and now it was all over. There was nothing he could do.
Anger burned in him anew. If only that piece of shit pawnbroker could see past their ego to properly assess his pieces. If only that employee had done something about the lottery ticket misprints the first time. If only, if only, if only.
Sweat collected along his skin, punching the cold out of his skin.
Maybe it wasn’t the pawnbroker or the cashier at all. Maybe it was whoever was making the statues. If they’d chosen a more marketable muse, he’d have more than enough for rent. It was their fault. Their fault, their fault, their fault.
He threw his blanket off, the heat becoming too much. He was melting, boiling in his own flesh. He reached down to swipe the sweat off his legs but was met with the scalding touch of smooth black marble. The stone was crawling up his body, encasing him in a fiery, matte prison. As the stone inched up to his face, he grimaced at the heat searing his flesh. In one final move, he pulled his knees to his chest- the fetal position.
Dani Elliott is a creative writing English major with a studio art minor at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She has taken various comparative literature and English classes such as three levels of fiction writing, poetry, great books from antiquity, and more. In her free time, she enjoys writing, embroidery, playing her flute, and baking. She prefers to work independently most of the time but values her peers and their ideas greatly. She loves literature, specifically fiction, and aspires to work in children’s literature as a publisher after she’s completed her degree.