As cold as ice, the blade drew circles in her flesh. Never penetrating the flawless canvas below, the artist kept his design in his own mind. Gently her stomach sucked in, the sharp silver caressing the layers of her skin. His head spun with thoughts of sickening beauty. Not every portrait is worthy of hanging on the wall of the Louvre. Some are kept in the depths of a lover’s mind. She placed her hand above his, guiding the destruction into the silk of her being.