It was around Easter when he was given that special clay. He was told to make two people, in his image. Unfortunately, he passed away before finishing his work. For weeks upon weeks, the only thing he'd think about was the sex of his creations. And so he had decided to leave them sexless. Even featureless. Just two figures, unfinished, inside a large wooden workshop.
When they got there to collect the sum of his work, the smell of grass was all over the place. The scent of the outdoors, so forgotten a scent. The two figures were at the very center. Scary, maybe, since they lacked characteristics, but what struck them as odd was the placement of their limbs. It made them look so sad. Though incomplete, the figures were not empty. They would feel. Even when being bubble-wrapped and driven away. They would feel. Their bodies clearly showed that. Like one needed the other with all its heart. But neither knew how to love. Or if they were allowed to. Since they had no sex. And the world would not understand their love. People need identities. To accept the others. To judge based on those very identities and come up with the verdict whether their love is normal or perverse. The two, though without a sex, were infused with all "qualities" of a human being.
So the vicious circle of blame would begin. One would blame the sculptor, for leaving it sexless. The other would blame itself, for feeling all this love when people wouldn't allow it. The people would blame the two, for even existing. The sculptor, if still alive, would blame him for not being specific. But he, he wouldn't blame anyone. For he is kind.