She cuts off his head. His head is full of luxuriant curls not unlike Medusa's snakes. She can feel the air on her nipples as she pulls the blade from its scabbard. It is heavy and all the world gleams along its edge. She will cleave the head off the body which she might be doing simply for the pleasure of his absence. She can feel the warm blood on her, a new skin as it dries.
She looks likes ecstasy. She shimmers. Her lips are parted. She bathes in gold like a halo, like the Madonna and Christ, except there's no baby, only a dead man's head, small in the corner. He is also painted sensually, his lips are pale but full. Her fingers are buried in his curls. She swings it, the weight of it a comfort, the blood painting everything around it. There is no blood in the painting. Only gold, shimmering, only Judith's half closed eyes, only her clothes of fractured light and jewels, her face as pale as his.
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