by Susan Warren Utley
She held the weapon in her hand. Her victim lay motionless upon the table unable to defend itself. She began cautiously, poking and prodding, slow to commit to her actions. Her cuts were shallow and tentative; almost giving the impression she had not done this before. But then a smile emerged upon her face revealing a grim delight. Her cutting began to resemble the precision of a surgeon. Her dissection was deliberate. Red liquid oozed. Then something inside her seemed to snap as she feverishly began to slash and slice. Then, as with the tools of a seamstress, she pieced it back together with subtle stitching.
On the surface, the masterpiece bore little resemblance to the original but she knew at its heart was what the creator had intended but simply failed to execute. She also knew she would have questions to answer for. But then this is what they hired her to do. She was willing to make the necessary cuts to make it better, to make it stronger and to do so without killing it. It would live to tell the story and only she would have the ink upon her hands.
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