Contemptuous I've dubbed it. My face. My body. But no legs. I'm not sure what happened to my legs, not sure yet what, if anything, that means. She, me, is no longer being torn apart by guilt or anything but she's sure as hell not happy. Her eyes glare back at me but I'm distracted by the texture in her stomach and by her arms that hide her breast and groin from view. Her eyes. There's too much of me there, my anger at something. That was my control, my will. He had no right to take it, no matter what I did. Never again, her eyes say. Never again let them take that control from you. If you don't get hurt, you don't have to heal. On a less emotional level, I need either varnish on her or a red paint that doesn't have so much glare. I'm in love with the texture on her stomache.