I glance up and smile at the decorative epoxy plates adorning the wall. Each plate features a unique smile; some lips a little crooked, all capable of instantly transporting me back to when that particular smile had caught my attention and made me want to make it my own.

I am a collector at heart. As a child, I devoted myself to collecting stamps. I would meticulously extract them from postcards and envelopes, gently flatten and dry them, then carefully place them into the delicate pages of thin tissue paper for safekeeping.

One day, as I absentmindedly caressed the book cover of my stamp collection and watched the bright orange butterflies flit carelessly from one plant to another in our garden, a visiting aunt noticed my fascination. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she remarked. I nodded, sighing, “Some are so beautiful you just want to hold on to them.” My aunt replied with words that opened up a whole new world for me: “Well, Jonas, you can always catch them and start a collection.”

That day marked the beginning of a new turn in my life, as I eagerly researched all the information I could find on preserving butterflies. Over the years, I honed my skills in delicately spreading the colorful wings and precisely pinning down the insects’ narrow bodies. It was these skills that later in life equipped me with the tools to hold on to something I discovered I loved even more than butterflies.

I grew up as a quiet boy—not necessarily shy, but extremely hesitant to speak too much, insecure about my smile, wary of exposing my small pointy teeth. Naturally, this made me an easy target for teasing and bullies.

One day, during lunch break in the school cafeteria, Sarina, a girl from my class, on whom I secretly had a crush, turned around and flashed her most joyful smile in my direction. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, the cafeteria noise faded into the background, my hand froze mid-air, and a spoonful of rice fell back onto my plate as my throat went instantly dry.

As I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat, a classmate sitting next to me gave me a hard shove. His roaring laughter sent shivers down my spine. “Jonas, do you really think she’s smiling at you?!” he taunted, his words punctuated by hiccupping laughter that drew the attention of all the boys at the table. He nodded towards a boy walking by, on his way to Sarina. My classmate leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I see you staring at Sarina in class. She’ll never look at you. Not only are you ugly, but you’re also dumb to think someone like her would ever glance at your disgusting, ratty face.” He got up and left me there, my body struggling not to buckle under the crushing heat spreading from my chest and raging through my entire being.

After this incident, I took care that no one caught me gazing at Sarina’s smile or that of any other girl, or woman. Over the years, I wrestled with the intense urge to reach out and touch those smiling lips, to trace the curve of the upper lip with my index finger. I imagined that the smooth, delicate skin would feel even more tender than the thinnest butterfly wings in my extensive collection. All I could do was watch, refine my skills and wait.

As soon as I could afford it, I found a run-down house, more akin to a small wooden shack, nestled deep in the mondi—the natural bushes and wilderness on the abandoned, wind-beaten north-eastern coast of the island— where the relentless saltwater-laden wind shaped the harsh landscape.

The elderly owners were visibly relieved when I expressed interest in renting it long-term. A few years later, the opportunity to sell the property to me was precisely what the now grieving widow needed to secure some savings for her old age.

The house was perfect. Remote, with no neighbors around to complain about the geese, the stray dogs and most importantly, about my pigs. Pigs are nature’s own garbage cans. Anything chopped in manageable chunks, they’ll eat. Meat, flesh, hair, bones, muscles, nails.

The grunting sounds of the pigs, rooting around in the pigsty for the last remnants of their meal, pull me from my thoughts.

I turn my attention back to my worktable. Just a few days ago, while standing right here, I had completed the most challenging aspect of the entire undertaking. Using the sharpest scalpel I could acquire, I meticulously cut out the lips with utmost precision and as swiftly as possible after death, before rigor mortis set in.

Years ago, at the start, I failed numerous times. The results were often torn lips or lips cut too far, reminiscent of the Joker. I practiced on the smooth, thin skin of plump, curved apricots and on the flesh of animals. When I advanced to working with humans, I practiced on several body parts before feeding these maimed remains to the pigs: the inside of the underarm, the skin around nipples, any tender and fragile skin I could find. My training had paid off. Looking at the results over the years, I am sure that I would now make an excellent plastic surgeon, or alternatively, a highly regarded lab researcher, dedicated to preserving fragile human skin. In a another life that is, of course.

I always ensure I have ample time at home to regularly and carefully soak and agitate the skin in the tanning solution. After much trial and error, I had finally developed the precise chemical composition needed for the tanning solution to effectively preserve the delicate human skin. Once the skin was adequately preserved, and the distinctive, pungent smell of the chemicals had dissipated, my favorite part began – the task I have set for today. The task which I relish the most.

Using candidly taken pictures as my reference, I spread and carefully form the lips into the smile that captivated me from the very beginning. I meticulously pinch, adjust, and manipulate every millimeter of both lips, until the smile is perfect. A surge of pure adrenaline courses through my veins, causing my heart to pound against my ribcage and sending waves of excitement swirling and cascading throughout my entire body.

Once my racing heart calms, I carefully place the smile into the mold. Inspired by an artist who showcased butterflies embedded in slabs of epoxy, I pour the liquid epoxy meticulously in the mold, covering the smile, ensuring no air bubbles are trapped.

Now, I simply have to wait as the mold slowly dries in the gentle tropical breeze that rustles the leaves in the bushes surrounding us, while the sun gradually warms both the day and the cool room.

I gently caress one of the finished epoxy slabs, tracing the lip line of this particular eternal smile. I have never taken two smiles from one family before. However, these smiles I couldn’t resist.

“Soon,” I whisper to no one in particular, “your sister’s smile will be placed next join you.” I sigh with satisfaction and leave the room.

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