The heap of metal lay on its side, no longer "car", now merely "scrap".
Genevieve touched it. It was hot on her fingertips. She grasped the door and pulled, yanking it off its rusted hinges.
The feel of the sun's lingering heat in the door drove her wild. It had been 2 months since she'd been turned, and the reminder of the sun made her feel like she needed to DO something, ANYTHING to feel alive.
And so she used her super-strength to bend and crush metal into art.
Percival criticized her every move. As if being undead weren't enough, a no-nothing critic had followed her into undeath and cared not one white for form, always asking about function. She couldn't say WHY she loved the metal. If she could articulate it, perhaps she wouldn't make the art. The art spoke for itself, though. She made it because she couldn't SAY it.
Civilizations rose and fell, but for all eternity, they would dance the dance of inadequacy.
