Night.

It was a night, beyond beautiful, as the stars glistened with happiness and under the emphatic cosmos she sat, tears at her eyes carrying the pain she bore all alone. Her sobs were downed by the loud symphony of regular whips of leather slashing through air, and a woman's scream. The crickets sang along the grunts of a drunken man, breathing heavily. An artist with leather as his paintbrush, and the half dead lady laying on the floor, being his canvas.

Back to the girl, who confined herself in a room, where she was safe from the rogue artist. She sat at a corner, where the walls had her back. She felt secured, isolated and hiding in the dark. Her mind was racing, as fast as the horses she was taught back in school, but the thoughts were too blurry to be read. Her hands trembled with fear.  

Fear, the nemesis of hope, which was all gone from the little teary eyes which was born to witness the beauties in this vast world.

Fear invaded her heart and the night was too long for her too cry alone.

The lifeless woman, too tired to whimper her pain out, laid on the cold white marble. The floor acted like ice numbing out the bruises, but the wound at her heart bled the most. She was in pain, too much for her mind to bear, and her skin was the canvas. The canvas tinged in black, stained with red and purple scars etched, the naked canvas personified pain. The nerves transmitted pain to the brain, so did her heart. The regular whipping of leather was hurting, the agony it caused, she could have welcomed death with open arms. 

Death is unfair, snatching life when it's needed the most, sparing when it's better off dead.

But her soul was already dead, as hope abandoned the lady, who hoped for a beautiful tomorrow.

The drunkard, rogue artist, played with the belt, which was his paintbrush. His hands stripped the canvas down, and he felt the warm skin under his palms. He touched places, where none had ventured without love, and his lust stole her innocence, becoming her nightmare. The artist, destroyed the lively canvas, which now depicted pain. Done with his pleasure, alcohol knocked over. The hunter craved for blood, and his vulnerable hunt on the floor, bled from every part of the body.

He was Satan, hunting the angels down, tearing their wings apart, still looking for more joy. 

A soft whimpering voice, reached his ear, and curiously he left his kill, to find it's source. He discovered, it came from a locked room and he slyly smiled. 

*Knock Knock*

The night was too long.