It was a portrait. A portrait of a man smiling on a warm summer day, holding up his child with love and care. The warm sun shined on the grass and the trees in the background swayed with a cool breeze. The man’s eyes were glistening with love for his child and the pure joy of the moment. His smile was the smile of a man without worry or care. His child wore a small spotted dress which was blowing in the breeze. She was practically glowing in the sunlight. She was the man’s precious child, whom he would always look after till the end of his days.
It was a beautiful picture. A picture of a moment in time when all was good. Some might even call it a masterpiece. Each blade of grass was painted with the utmost detail. Each wrinkle on the man’s face, each spot on the child’s dress all painted to perfection. The painter put as much love into this painting as the man had for his child. It was an amazing, and beautiful thing.
It was a portrait. Painted in blood on the wall of a shoddy hotel room. The same man in the painting was lying in a heap against the wall with a bloody gash across his stomach. His organs peeking out of gash as he sat in a dried pool of his own blood with the same smile as above plastered to his face.
The worst thing of all is perversion disguised as beauty.
