She had promised the painting by morning.
At midnight, it was still unfinished.
At two, the face was wrong.
At four, the paint was gone.
She searched the studio for anything that could still make a mark.
Nothing.

The courier would arrive at eight.

At six thirty, the neighbors heard something fall.

No one checked.

When the studio was opened, the painting was finished.

She was lying beneath it.

Barely conscious.

There was blood on the floor.

Blood on the frame.

Blood dried into the canvas.

The portrait looked almost alive.

At the hospital, they asked what she had painted.

She looked at her bandaged hands.

“My deadline.”