Painting Her Red

A twisted artist discovers his new muse... PLEASE READ!! 1,645 words...

He nearly sprinted out of the room at the close of the meeting. He could feel the urge coming on strong once again. It was like an ever growing itch that just needed to be scratched. He could hardly believe that the feeling was coming on so strongly already, it had only been four days since the last one, but by this point he knew better than to try and fight it. He had become resigned to the fact that he was and would always be a slave to his unhealthy addiction.

The Blood.

It called out to his soul like a siren to a sailor, luring him to his demise. He craved it so heavily that it plagued his every thought. He couldn’t concentrate on work at all with it on his mind. The thick, warm, crimson liquid that gives us life. So beautiful and vibrant. Just imagining the stuff made his heart race wildly.

“I need it now.” He thought to himself, filled with longing.

He glanced down at his watch. One o’clock. Perfect. He could “go out to lunch” without anyone suspecting a thing. He decided to scope out his usual place: the park. It was the perfect place to people watch without anyone really noticing. So he walked the three blocks from the office and sat down on an empty bench that gave him the perfect view of all the passersby. He then pulled out his ham and cheese sandwich and a newspaper- both decoys- and got to work scoping out potential canvases. He referred to them as canvases because the way the red blood looks against the pale background that is skin, always reminded him of paint on a canvas. With the right tools, he could make something lovelier than a Picasso. By this point he was an experienced “artist” and had a real knack for choosing lovely subjects to make art out of. After only ten minutes of “shopping” he discovered the perfect one.

A woman, in her late twenties, with dark brown hair, and sea green eyes, sitting all alone. She was wearing a blue cardigan, office slacks, and dangerously tall high heels.  She was magnificent.

He could guess that she was a business woman or an intern, stopping in the park- like him- during her lunch break. As soon as he saw her, he knew that she was the one. He, with a natural sense of ease, got up from his seat, walking across the path and sat down in the empty space next to her.

He had never been a shy person. His tall, broad-shouldered stature and seemingly cheeky personality almost always put him in good standings with anyone that he met, especially the ladies. Because of these things, he found that it was quite easy to strike up a conversation with the woman.

He introduced himself, smiling shyly, in order to put the woman at ease. His technique to get her comfortable worked swimmingly. She introduced herself as Janice "although her name meant nothing to him- blushing heavily. So far, everything was going according to plan, but just to be safe he ran through his routine checklist. Eye contact: Check. Good Posture: Check. Smiles: Check. If things stayed this perfect, he would be able to have her as his muse by the end of the work day.

Once the hardest part- the introductions- were over, their conversation seemed to be following the pattern of perfection. They chatted for a while about the boring surface topics: the weather- unseasonably chilly for September in Chicago, their careers- she was an intern at the publishing company down the street- which surprisingly, luckily, was only a block away from his apartment, and other things containing little substance or consequence. Eventually, nearly an hour had past, and the woman-Janice- announced that her break was almost over and it was time for her to get back to work.

Slyly, feigning disappointment for her needing to leave, he offered to accompany her on the walk back to the publishing company. Surprisingly, the woman agreed easily, needing only a little coaxing from him. She even agreed to take a slightly scenic route- away from any possible witnesses- gullibly falling in to his false pretense of spending more time with her.

“Could things be going any better?” He thought to himself, almost smugly.

As they turned the corner, he intentionally-seemingly naturally- fell a bit behind. Before the woman even noticed what was happening, he pulled out the handkerchief that he had stashed in the front pocket of his suit jacket and pressed the fabric over her nose and mouth. The woman, obviously taken by surprise, reacted with relatively fast reflexes, but to no avail. He was able to easily over power her, and the chloroform was in her system within moments.

He only used enough of the chemical to put the woman in a groggy state, so as to make her more cooperative. He led her, with ease, the remaining distance to the apartment building where he lived. Once inside, the woman followed him, weakly, obediently, into his bedroom and he coaxed her on to the mattress.

 

 

The hour was almost at hand; only a few more preparations were in order. In the anticipation of satiating the lust for blood that hung in his bones, he felt the familiar twist in his stomach. Gently, he grabbed both of her wrists, holding them taunt above her head, and bound then to the posts so that she was lying on her back. Finally it was time.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an eyeglasses case. Opening it, he revealed a small sharp knife with a curved blade.

Through her drugged haze, woman’s eyes widened in fear, and for a moment, he almost pitied her. After all, he didn’t do this for the torture. He hated the idea of hurting anyone. The only thing he had any interest in, was the red life that her skin held.

He pushed the woman’s shirt up slightly without unbuttoning it, and she struggled against her restraints, thrashing wildly. He realized that she probably thought he was going to rape her. No. That was virtually the last thing on his mind. Sex couldn’t hold his attention the way the soft blush of her pigment could.

His stomach was locked in knots as he lightly pressed the tip of the blade into the space just below her navel. Now the girl didn’t dare thrash, and he was grateful. He couldn’t paint her beautifully if his model wasn’t still.

Slowly, by degrees, he increased the pressure applied behind the blade. He always liked to take this part slowly. To savor the first cut, the look on her face, and the vibrant flash of color. Her eyes widened once more as he finally broke the skin. He made a single, shallow line of red with the knife, and then pulled away to marvel at his own handiwork.

It was perfect. A shudder of pleasure racked his body at the sight. Now he needed more.

He dropped the knife on the stand near the bed and stared down at the woman. Roughly, entranced, he unbuttoned the woman’s shirt completely in one swift motion, revealing a lacy pink bra, almost as pale as her skin. Now he paused, admiring the view. Wow. She really was quite beautiful, he thought to himself. Lying flat on her back with her arms tied above her head, she was utterly helpless and exposed in the best and the worst way. He could hardly contain his excitement

He traced over the line of red with the blade once again, applying just a bit more pressure. The woman cried out beneath his hands from the pain, but he couldn’t hear her now. He couldn’t see, or hear, or feel anything other than the wonderful red that was beginning to flow freely from the wound. It had consumed his senses entirely; the blood called out to him, swallowing him whole.  As if on impulse he brought his face down, slowly, closer to the woman’s stomach, allowing his mouth to graze the wound. He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes as he licked his lips, savoring the metallic taste. The disgust and shock was plain on the woman’s face, although by now the drugs were really starting to kick in.

.It was finally time for the real work to begin, tracing the shape with his knife from memory, years of experience having seared it into his brain; he became a true artist showcasing his skill. Cutting just deep enough to create gashes that wouldn’t bleed freely and cause her to lose consciousness, he created pictures within her flesh; the knife becoming the pen, the blood the ink, and her skin the paper.

From only his imagination he formed wonderful creatures, and figures only found within the darkest of souls. Symbols with swirls and lines came to life through his hands, illuminating her once milky and translucent skin with the vibrancy that only true color can bring.

The masterpiece was finished now, and he stood back a bit to admire his efforts .She was red all over now. There was hardly anymore canvas left to paint on. The only pieces of white flesh left were on the woman’s face. He could never bring himself to mar the faces, only the bodies.

Now all that’s left is the name. Every work of art needs a name.

“I think I’ll call you Diana” he told the bloody, shaking woman lying on his bed, bound to the headboard. She did not respond. She only stared up at him with a horrified glazed-over expression.

Now that his work here was finished, he glanced down at his watch. Nearly three o’clock; he would make it to his next meeting of the day.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Please give me feedback :)

Reviews

[Layne]

I really believed this to be a good, solid short story piece. I really think this is good.

[Jack V.]

Very mainstream! You've got a talent for producing a solid paperback. :)

[Kalen Luciano]

The story is morbid which wasn't a bad thing. In fact, I kind of like the cruelness of the story. I have written stories similar to these if you would like to check them out they are on my writing. As far as the quality of your story, I thought the description and they way you led the reader to each event was fantastic. I admire the psychopathic artist and reading his thoughts, adding another layer of pleasure for the reader. Overall, this gruesome story was well done and I can't wait to read more of your stories and other works. Keep on writing because you definitely have a talent in you.

[Holly]

Thankyou so much!! I'm really into writing dark stories... I'll definitely check out some of your stories :)

[Coyote Poetry]

A intense and powerful story. I like the way you led the reader to the final scene. The description was very good. Allowed the reader to feel every cut. I like the internal thoughts of the girl. No weakness in this wild and scary tale. They say Artist must be madman to create. This is true for this story. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[Holly]

Thank you so much :)