Micro-Fiction: A Forced Sacrifice

They had been working on this painting for a long time now, and they still hated it. It was too red. It looked like the scream, even though it was supposed to be based on a poem by Pablo Neruda. They had gone for a walk to clear their mind, and when they came back, the house was early silent. The door to the atelier was open, which was curious because they always closed it on the way out. When they walked through the door, they gasped. The painting was utterly desecrated. There were large cuts in the canvas, and someone had up-ended the pot of black ink on it. On the desk next to it lay a note.

"I know you'll be angry, but it had to be done. I couldn't bear to see you labour under the burden of that painting any longer. I don't think our relationship, or even you for that matter, would have survived if you'd been allowed to continue, so I did what you wouldn't. I'm at my sister's place for a week. Please take some time to think about how you want to move forward, I know I will. I love you."