He heard her scream from the kitchen as he opened the front door. He ran to the hall where he found her abandoned body, lifeless eyes locked on him, bloody smile plastered across her face. She was dead, she’d killed herself. Thoughts running through his head, none of them made sense. How could anything make sense without her? He couldn’t live on without her; he wouldn’t live on without her. But, he clinged to life so desperately, like the way he used to grasp onto sanity. Yet, as she lay there, his grip on sanity slowly loosened, and it was not long before he grasped onto something new. Her.

            So much blood, why was there so much blood? Hysteric laughter bubbled up from the depths of his stomach. So much blood. He would have to clean it all up, and make his little princess nice and pretty again. He took her to the shower and stripped her, when he discovered the wound above her chest. She’d been a bad girl, letting herself get hurt like that; he would have to stitch her back up. He quickly ran to her room and looked through her drawers. Where was it? Where had she kept it? Ah, finally. He wasted no time returning to her to stitch her back together. He washed her, and brushed her hair. He even did her makeup for her. She would be so grateful, he knew it. He looked into her eyes and asked her, but all he got in answer was that blank stare. Those eyes, he couldn’t stand to look at them. But how beautiful she was, he had capture her beauty.

            He dragged he body down to the cellar and laid her on the floor. How to capture her beauty? He was an artist, and he’d waited forever for her to let him do her portrait, and try to capture her very essence. Now, finally, she did not protest when he took brush in hand and set up to trace every detail, every curve, and every inch of her body onto canvas. He would not stop to eat or drink and she did not move. He thought of this as a blessing, she never used to stand still. He would finish his work. He would not move if she would not. He would finish her portrait. He had to, he must.

            It was not long before he had created a number of masterpieces, all of her, all of his one true love. But, he could never quite finish. There were always the eyes, those blank eyes. Something was missing, something was not right. He got mad at her one day, he yelled at her to fix her eyes! Her response was the same cold, blank stare. This frightened him so; he could not stand to look her in the eyes. He took to leaving her in the cellar, she seemed to like being alone. He went to bed alone, always dreaming about those blank eyes, lifeless…

There might be a part II, if anyone is interested?