The painting of Jesus on a square eight by ten by half inch piece of ply wood looking out into the distance, with his hair in the wind, and love on his face; the only one he had ever seen where Jesus was portrayed as a real man, not like these sissy Hipster kids walking around today, was his most reviled possession. He moved it around from place to place in his small studio apartment, always ashamed and looking for a new place so that it would be out of sight of non-religious visitors, yet in a convenient location that he could point out to his religious family should they choose to visit. He had inherited that painting from his grandfather, whom he had never really known as a religious man, but according to his wife, prayed constantly, and in a death bed (conversion as far as he was concerned
) shouted in a dementia induced hysteria, "Forgive me, Lord, I really loused up."
His aunt had shoved the painting into his lap to take home, so he put it on the bookshelf, but that would never do, because every time he looked up from two scantily clad women wrestling each other for dominance, he was reminded of Jesus, which reminded him of his grandfather, which reminded him of Death, and that promptly killed any life he had come to acquire down below. So he moved it over his headboard, and then to the radiator. He did not want it, but he did not want to throw it out. He would have felt guilty selling it, and nervous someone should ask about it if he gave it away.
"Fuck you, Jesus," He growled one morning as he stuttered his legs into the bathroom, the painting now resting on the shelf adjacent the medicine cabinet. He squeezed a Texas portion of toothpaste and scrubbed viciously. His gums began to irritate. He taunted the painting with a bloody toothpasted smile and spat into the sink before rinsing out his mouth with water. He washed his hands and bespattered his face. "Whoo!" He shouted as he gave the Lord a double finger and walked back towards the main room.
He stubbed his toe on the lip and howled.
He hopped around on one foot and moaned, "Oh, shit, oh sonofabitchshitfuckshitfuckshitJesusfuckshit." He groaned over and over again, "Rnnnng, mmmm, mmm, angggh," as he curled his toes in absolute agony.
When he had recovered he walked back into the bathroom, grabbed the painting, and broke it over his knee. The two pieces still lie on the same part of the bathroom tile floor.