His hand moves swiftly and gracefully across the paper. The pencil clearly belonged in his hand. A natural artist, as his clients liked to call him. He lifted his arm off the paper to look over his work. He smiled contentedly and glanced at his model. She lied perfectly still; as if she were a porcelain doll. He admired her natural beauty. She was draped over the blood red lounge like a fallen curtain, her head propped up on her hands with a glassy stare towards the ceiling. He takes the finished drawing out of his sketchbook and weaves carefully through the crumpled up, unfinished sketches on the ground. As he pins it to the wall with the others, he looks over his shoulder at the model. She still stares at the ceiling while he hangs the priceless drawing; motionless. "I guess next time you

won't fidget so much. Right, dear?" He wipes his sweaty palms on his

trousers and claps them together. He sighs and sits back down.

He had told her. He had told her to sit still.

She knew how intricate the human body is,

but she kept moving her legs. She let tears send

rivulets down her perfectly shaped cheeks. He took

in a deep breath. Now she knows. He gazes at his

slacks while he contemplates what he should do next.

"Gosh darn it!” When he had dried his hand on his

pants, he didn’t realize that his hands were tainted. As he looks around, he notices the mess he made on the trashed artworks and her eggshell colored dress. He stares at the picture that he just pinned. There's a single drop of crimson blood on the sketch. It slowly creeps down the drawing in a way that resembles a red tear. He lunges forward and rams her off the red divan. She doesn't fight back or resist. He glares at the red-stained white carpet while clenching his hands. His nostrils flare in indignation. He's soiled yet another masterpiece.