They call her a monster. He called her his God with stained hands.

In Bill’s eyes, She didn’t make art. She left warnings. Scenes soaked in arterial hue, bodies arranged like still-life.

And him? He framed her work. He’d do anything and everything she asked.

He claims she said he had an eye for balance. That he was useful when her hands start shaking mid-stroke. When the blood thickens. When the lungs don’t collapse fast enough. That’s when he holds them down for her. He could help her. Get her approval.

They move like a ritual now. He scouts. She paints. He cleans. She signs.

She signs them all the same way— Those paintings. Something he was so terrified yet obsessive of before.

He believed he was a better man. A better version of himself that he’s ever been.