He bent slightly to his right, then to his left, surveying the piece of art on the floor. He hated it. And if he stared at it any longer he’d have to throw it out, as was always the way. But he only had one more muse, and he wasn’t too sure what to do with her. This one had fought so hard, that he thought it was going to be beautiful, with the bruises he had to place on her to keep her from escaping, and the cuts on her hands she had gathered from trying to stop the knife from striking down on her. But all of it was lost in the overpowering red that coated her and the canvas. No struggle, no beauty. He felt ashamed for having her in it, ruining the beauty of her last moments of hope. He wanted to preserve that last moment that struggle. He groaned, placing his hands over his ears, shaking in anger at his own incompetence. But yes, the struggle frozen, in ice or perhaps concrete. Though he wouldn’t be able to see her then know his piece was underneath his feet, forever struggling for air. Stranger pieces of artwork had been made.