Jesus on his cross, wrists and ankles bloodied, slice from a lance in his side. A dark image of pain and agony; not the savior at peace. Nothing like that.
The hut, which houses the portrait, is cold and small and dark, and you can almost feel the chill singing through the wooden slats. It's always winter here, at least that's how the place is remembered.
A little girl kneels in front of the painting, hands steepled in prayer, eyes tightly closed. Her pale blonde hair is tied up in crooked pigtails, and the dress she wears is dirty white. She's seven, and you can just make out the blood dripping along the back of her legs from under the dress' hem.
A woman lingers just out of sight, leans in the doorway to the kitchen, where water is boiling menacingly. All you can hear is the bubbling, and it gets louder and louder and louder, until the memory fades.