Stroke after stroke, Vladimir's paintbrush flew across the canvas. In his right hand, a paintbrush was firmly held in a tight grip and was flicking across the canvas in front of him, leaving streaks of paint in its wake. In his left hand, Olga’s necklace was hidden away in a clenched fist. The small charm attached to the necklace was digging into the flesh of his palm.

After spending three days in bed, mourning over the death of his daughter and wife, Vladimir’s restlessness had peaked and he had finally grew tired of doing nothing. All he had left of the two women was Olga’s dainty necklace, with a small charm hanging delicately off the chain. Vladimir had grown tired of developing an acceptance of the deaths of his eleven year old daughter and wife, the two loves of his life. He had grown tired of allowing the government to get away with their murders. He was tired of following the rules and getting nothing but pain in return for his compliance.

Vladimir took a few steps back and observed his work. He had brought his daughter back to life, forever encased within the the paint that was slowly seeping into the canvas. Olga’s toes were not pressed flat against the ground, but were floating in midair instead. Large white wings were holding her weight off of her feet. Her eyes were angled towards the sky and her mouth was parted slightly, seemingly having a sweet melody escape from her lips. Sunshine was warming her face and roses wrapped themselves around her legs, arms and torso. Olga was the perfect representation of purity and would be cherished by all that see her.

Anyone who would cast a quick glance at his painting would see the rendition of an angel that belongs amongst the heavens. The perfect image would be accepted by the people and government of the Soviet Union, where Vladimir’s painting style was regulated and monitored; only depictions of happiness, purity, and victory were permitted.

Vladimir took a step closer to his painting, close enough to get a better look at what was really being shown. At first glance, a pure angel is seen. But up close, the wings holding Olga up appear tattered and beaten severely, with patchy holes caused by missing feathers. Olga’s mouth, which at first appeared to be releasing a soft song, had screams clawing their way out instead. Rather than sunlight, moonlight illuminated her face, giving her a ghostly pale complexion of anguish. The thorns of the roses were digging into her flesh, causing blood to dribble down her body from the puncture wounds. The vines of the roses that wrapped around her feet were shackling her down to the ground, rendering her frayed wings completely useless.

The purity shown at first glance hid something far darker. The viewers of Vladimir’s art would gasp with horror filled eyes, followed by fear settling in their stomachs. Fear for Vladimir and the punishment he would receive for releasing such a piece into the public. Fear of what the communist government would do for defying the regulations they set in place.

Four days prior, on May 25, 1932, Vladimir’s daughter was found dead on the street, after being hit by the car of a drunk police officer. Vladimir’s wife found Olga's body while heading over to the line for bread. She would have waited on line for hours, like everyone else, if it hadn't been for the screaming she heard up the block. Her grief was so heavy and unbearable that she slit her wrists that same night.

Vladimir was given a measly apology from the officer who killed his daughter. There was no punishment for the murder of the only people who mattered most to him. Vladimir had lost everything he ever loved in one night. Rather than follow in the steps of his wife, he wanted to make sure everyone knew about the injustice he suffered from.

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Vladimir was dragged from his home twelve hours after his painting was put up in an exhibition.

“You are under arrest” were the last words he heard before being grabbed and thrown out of his house. His arrest was made public, for all of his neighbors to see.

“You motherf***er!” Vladimir had shouted at the police officer who barged through his front door; it was the same one who had murdered his family. With Olga’s necklace bunched up in Vladimir's right hand, he found the courage to swing his fist at the officer's face. Watching blood trickle out of the man’s nose was one of the most satisfying sights Vladimir had ever seen.

Neighbors, that had once been called friends, stood by and watched as Vladimir was beaten by the officer. Watched him get dragged away, bloody and broken. They did not question the arrest and they did not question when Vladimir never returned to his home.