Broken

pain

On the brown table that leans on the wall, a beautiful brown handle hammer lays. The handle a polished brown. I personally had it made. I like all my things made and not bought from a vendor. I want to see the process of it all.

Its beauty complete with the maroon red tint on its iron head. A tiny puddle of Maroon near the iron head...a tiny dot of my favorite color.

I pat away the liquid and then turn my gaze to the floor. The object of my artistic fantasy pinned to the wooden floor. I chose this type of wood to slightly absorb the fluid from my art...not enough to absorb...not enough to retain...just a perfect amount of moisture.

My artistic object is aware and awake and he stares back at me. His eyes damp with tears, his pupils wide with fright...begging to be let go. He wants me to let him go.

I smile. Such a silly thing. Now why would I let him go. Silly thing

He tries to wiggle...he probably shouldn't do that. It will only make things worse. Jesus didn't try to escape. So why should he?

My object lays pinned...nailed to the floor...his skin a criss cross of flesh. It bore a resemblance to when mother would squirt jam all over my bread.
When she would create lines on my bread back and forth.

He can't call out. He wants to. I can see it in the bulge of his eyes and in the trial of wanting to open his mouth. I sewed his lips shut. I like intricate lines. His lips look like a barcode. Black thread was a good choice.

I squat next to him and then looking down. I smile. Today I would send him to the sky.

He needed it. He needed to go to the saints and I would send him there. But first...I need to paint with the red of his skin.

His skin would be the canvas, I would create red lines on him. Oh yes, I want a stormy red sea. I'll do just that.

Then picking up the discarded rusted nail I used to scribble. I proceeded to do just that.