Rosélie carefully selected a canvas: forty-three inches by fifty-one. She fixed it to the wall. Grabbing a crayon, her hand drew in rapid, precise strokes a pair of eyes in the very middle. The eyes that had so impressed her. Drooping, half-slit eyes glowing between heavy lids. For those eyes, the surrounding world did not count. Only what boiled inside mattered and that remained a mystery. The entire face would be built around these eyes. Then, one by one, she unscrewed the tubes of paint, choosing the colors she liked: red, black, blue, dark green, and white. She squeezed them against the palm of her hand, spreading their contents onto her palette. She felt the dull sensation of her insides impatiently preparing to give birth. Finally, she approached the square of canvas where that impenetrable gaze held hers, and resolutely, she began to paint.
Fiela, is that you? Is this me? Our two faces have merged.
This time, she knew what her title would be. She had found it even before she had started. It had welled up from deep inside her on the crest of a raging tide: Cannibal Woman.