Leonde.

He rests his chin on two slender fingers, pursing his lips as he did so. Every detail was examined; the fine strokes of a rich, dark midnight blue, the two fat, angry brushes of red, the jagged edges of a tear, five inches in length, across the delicate features of a porcelain-skinned girl, her wide brown eyes askew, her tiny upturned nose hidden by the gash.

'You like Leonde?' A girl, slender and blonde, in a sky blue dress looked at him enquiringly.

'I wouldn't use the term like..' The corners of his lips turned up slightly.

'Isn't this one interesting though? So much pain, and the angst' She stared intently at the 6 by 8-inch canvas image.

There was pain and angst alright. In fact, he was all too familiar with the instrument that created the monstrous gash. It was an old kitchen knife, brown wooden handle, with two metal screws embedded at each of its flat sides. It chopped onions for the stews, split apples for the children during lunch and butchered meat when they were lucky enough to afford chicken.

He rubbed the faint scar on the joint of his left thumb.  It was all over, he reminded himself. The silver blade would no longer flash before him. It would no longer wave before his terrified mother, her skirt riding up to her thighs as her shoulders pressed against the stained, cream-coloured kitchen cabinets, trying to make herself as small as possible, clamping her lips together to quell the screams rising in her throat.

No. It was all in the past -and the silver blade was buried, sunk in an accident, lodged in a no longer beating heart, stained with a dark crimson.