** the following story might be disturbing for those sensitive to domestic abuse**
The scars didn’t show. He made sure of that, yet they were a work of art. It was hard to cut with such precision, but he was a master of his craft. He was proud of his handiwork, even if he was the only one to view it.
She bore the scars and wondered why he did this to her. She also wondered why she put up with it, but she couldn’t make herself leave. Every time she thought about it, his voice would pop into her head. It was just words after all, and he was right. Those words didn’t really cut her and make her bleed, yet she hemorrhaged out her hope long ago, and she didn’t have much self-esteem left in her deflated, marred ego. Every night she prayed for everything to end, but her prayers were never answered.
He watched her cry herself to sleep. Sometimes he would feel guilty about what he did. Other artists maimed themselves for their art. He knew he lost pieces of his soul for his creation, but it was a sacrifice that must be done. He was so grateful for his canvas.
He sat in the chair, transfixed on the clothed canvas before him, hints of what lay beneath poking out at various points. His anticipation growing by the minute, he was afraid he was going to burst before this was all over.
She slowly revealed her canvas, piece by piece. The art danced before his eyes, mesmerizing him as more and more of the picture was exposed. What he originally thought was a collage of disparate pieces began to coalesce together into one masterwork. Soon everything was revealed and it took his breath away.
She smiled a coy smile. “Want to have a closer look?”
He was shaking as he approached. Even mere inches away the art was unbelievably complex. His excitement threatened to explode. What stood before him was amazing in every way.
She giggled. “I knew you liked tattoos, but I didn’t expect this.”