His hands were red. Red like the scene infront of him. She was dead. Lying there, her body twisted in the way only the dead can twist. A look of pure agony on her face as she lay in a pool of her own blood. She was his masterpiece. Everything was clear, perfect. He stared at her, saw her pain and sadness. It was beautiful, like a release. The image of her dead had been building in his head for so long that he couldn’t help but grn at what he had created. With the smile still on his face he washed the paint from his hands and let the canvas dry, ready to take to the gallery in the morning.