She clicked the heels of her ruby-red shoes, then went to work. They were not in Kansas anymore. She had always liked Jackson Pollock and Joseph Beuys. If she wanted to combine the organic with the expressive, energetic, she would need to first carve him up before she could throw bits and pieces of him against the clean, white wall. At first he screamed, but he fainted soon enough, never to witness his own death. She took great care to sever each finger separately, she pulled out the nails with greatest attention to detail before she threw each piece of flesh against the wall.

She would keep some for tomorrow. That was the trouble, you see: that blood is always red. It changes colour though when it dries. So she would return tomorrow to get different hues in. She quite liked the idea of all that life-force on the wall, the dismembered, dried out body in shambles underneath. She would stack the pieces of her lover neatly underneath the mural, it would almost seem like an erupting volcano. She would cut his hair and strew it onto the picture, as finishing touches. And since a little Picasso is never wrong, she would glue his nose and his ears in no particular order scattered somewhere on her chef-d’oeuvre. The tongue she would keep as a keepsake. A reminder of what got him into this mess, nay what elevated him to a piece of art.

He had said three words that would seal his faith. She didn’t like to be kept on a tight leash. But perhaps this was her way of saying that she loved him back. She smiled as she ripped the ribs out of his back.

What a lovely sunday afternoon it was. The sun fell in through the window just right. The tea was steeped just right. Her lover now looked quite alright.

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