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The Picture Frame

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He was standing in his darkroom, and the photo was finally ready.
His dangerous excited whispering fills the air and with the new print shaking in his eager hands, he had quietly crept up the basements stairs.

She was beautiful.Her body was sitting up. Hands folded into the small of her lap and slender legs sprawled straight out facing the ocean. Her feet deemed a worn out pair of black converse and her floral dress laced with white lay casually across her thighs. Her lips were stained a deep crimson and her face blushed a dark sadness. To him, this frozen expression was overly intoxicating but innocent as well. This fact had made him worry.
He was always gentle with her wasn't he?
Yes he was always gentle, gentle and accurate. He reassured himself.

Trying to remember the scene of the photo, he closed his eyes. He could focus on his muse better that way, those flawless vacant eyes watching him as he prepped his work of art.
“This won’t take long.” He had told her, knowing she wasn’t going to put up a fight either way.
Guiding the raven curls off of her back, he twisted pieces of her hair fondly; securing the knots with little pins. These movements made her head loll slightly toward her chest, disturbing the pose. On impulse, he had tilted her face carefully towards the water.It was perfect he thought as he stepped back to admire his work.

The photo had been taken of a girl from behind, but the attention was drawn to the gaping square in the girl’s middle. It was located where her ribs should have been and the dress was cutout along the edges of the square. Her blue-black hair twisted causally down her shoulders, outlining the ocean that was displayed through her empty body. On the right side of the photo there were smudged words. Written in black sharpie, was the title of his masterpiece.
“The Picture Frame”



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