The reports of my creation were greatly exaggerated.
Everyone believed that Prometheus carefully crafted me from clay, that Athena breathed life into my newly-formed body. Yet, birth, whether it be of an idea or a being, has always been messy. The stories of my making neglected to mention Prometheus' calloused hands or Athena’s morning breath. They certainly didn’t include my half-finished predecessors, their faces frozen in pain, partial bodies contorted. These failed drafts stared at me from the corners of the room as I was brought into the world, giving me a glimpse of my possible future.
Who stood to gain from embellishments surrounding my birth? Who benefited from positive PR?
The very Gods who cursed me into existence – the Creators. After my construction, they abandoned me, and I found a worse fate than any I could’ve imagined: eternity. I walked this earth for millennia, desperate to return to the dirt. No rain could melt me down, no heat could burn me to ash.
I was unwillingly man, held captive within a fleshy prison.
When Prometheus first gave humans fire, I preferred to stay in the dark. From the shadows, I watched humans evolve as I was forced to remain. But at the foot of Mount Olympus, I appreciated the gift for the first time as I stood over a small fire.
I poked the flames at my feet with a branch, watching it dance, alive and free. Like a painter with a brush, I threw the lit stick to the ground and smiled as the blaze began. It spilled into the dry forest of olive trees, each fallen leaf and rotting log acting as tinder for my growing masterpiece.
“This is for you,” I whispered, letting the wind carry my words to the Gods.
I watched the destruction unfold - the creation, finally a Creator.