A Masterpiece in Blood

The idea settled into me like a poison, its tendrils creeping through every corner of my mind. It was no longer a fleeting thought, but a truth that I could no longer deny. This was how I would create. This was how I would find the inspiration that had been so elusive for so long. The hunger was insatiable, and I could feel the thirst in every fiber of my being.

It didn't matter how wrong it felt, how much society would condemn me. It didn't matter that my hands would be stained forever, that the world would look at me with disgust. This was my art. This was my truth.

I spent the day in a haze of anticipation, the air in my apartment thick with the weight of what I was about to do. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. Every moment felt like a countdown. I couldn't afford to waste time, not with the idea burning so brightly in my mind.

The city outside my window buzzed with life, oblivious to the darkness I was about to unleash. But none of it mattered to me. The hum of traffic, the people rushing by—it was all distant noise, fading into the background as I focused on the task at hand.

The street outside became my canvas, the passersby nothing more than subjects to be molded. I needed someone. Someone whose life could fuel my work. It didn't matter who. All I needed was a body—a vessel for my creation.

And then, there he was.

A man, walking down the street with the kind of air that suggested he didn't stand out. He was just another face in the crowd, blending into the mundane chaos of everyday life. But to me, he was perfect. Ordinary. Disposable.

I followed him for a while, just watching, analyzing. His steps were measured, purposeful, like he had somewhere to be, but he wasn't in any particular hurry. I watched as he paused outside a café, glancing at his phone. There was nothing special about him. But I didn't need special. I needed a subject.

I waited for the moment when the street cleared out, when the noises of the city faded into a dull hum. I followed him, a shadow trailing behind. The perfect opportunity came when he turned down an alley. Quiet, isolated, and empty.

I approached him quickly, a steady calm taking over my body as I closed the distance between us. He didn't even have time to react. The chloroform was already pressed against his face, and within seconds, he was limp in my arms.

Cooper. I would later learn his name from his wallet, but for now, he was just a blank canvas. His weight was awkward in my arms as I dragged him toward the trunk of my car. His body seemed too light, like it didn't belong to him anymore. I threw him in the trunk without ceremony, the dull thud of his body landing echoing in the stillness of the night.

The drive to my studio took longer than expected, the city's traffic like a cruel reminder of the time slipping away. The red lights, the stop signs, the endless procession of cars—all of it felt like a delay, a frustrating interruption. I needed to get there. I needed to begin.

But the traffic was relentless, the minutes ticking by slowly, like each second was stretching out before me, teasing me with its inevitable arrival. I could feel the pressure building in my chest. Every moment spent idling felt like a betrayal of the idea that was so deeply entrenched in me.

Finally, the gridlock broke, and I was speeding toward the studio, my hands clenched around the steering wheel.

When I arrived, the studio felt colder than usual. It was like a church to me now, an altar where I would create my masterpiece. The air inside was thick with the scent of paint and turpentine, the remnants of old works scattered across the room like discarded memories.

I opened the trunk, my heart racing as I pulled the lifeless form of Cooper out. The faint smell of chloroform lingered on his skin, but he was still unconscious, his chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. He was nothing now, just an object waiting to be transformed.

I dragged him inside the studio, his body uncooperative, a limp shell of a person. I didn't care. I was already focused on the tools—on the hammer that I would use to bring my vision to life. It was the tool I had chosen from the beginning. I had planned it.

As I set the tools out, my mind began to race again. I couldn't waste time. Everything had to be perfect. The canvas, the blood, the chaos. This was my chance to create something unlike anything anyone had ever seen before. The lines, the strokes, the mess of it all—it would be beautiful.

I heard a faint groan.

I paused, listening.

His eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding his features. For a moment, he didn't seem to understand where he was, what was happening. His gaze shifted around the room, taking in the dark corners of the studio, the sharp edges of the tools laid out on the table. And then, his eyes found me.

He began to stir, his body tense with fear. I could see it in his eyes—the panic setting in. He tried to sit up, his arms shaking as he pushed himself into an upright position. His breath came in ragged gasps.

"What… what is this? What's happening?" His voice was hoarse, weak.

The words were meaningless to me. I was beyond caring for his pleas. I wasn't here to comfort him. I wasn't here to explain myself.

And then he saw the hammer.

He froze, his eyes widening in terror.

"Please… no, please! I… I have a family. I… I don't want to die!" His voice cracked, desperation filling his tone. His hands reached out, as if to beg for mercy. But there would be no mercy.

I stepped closer, feeling a surge of cold satisfaction ripple through me. His pleas did nothing to sway me. If anything, they fueled the fire. The weakness in his voice, the desperation in his eyes, was nothing but fuel for the creation I was about to make.

His begging became louder, more frantic. "Please, I don't want to die. Please—"

The sound of his voice became a dull hum in my ears. It was like a song I had already heard too many times. His desperation only made the moment more thrilling. I could see the fear in him, but it only pushed me forward.

I raised the hammer. The air felt thick, charged with anticipation. I was going to create. I was going to leave my mark.

The first strike was slow, deliberate. It landed with a sickening crack. Cooper's body jerked violently as the blow landed, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. Blood sprayed, splattering against the floor, the walls, the ceiling. His body convulsed, and the pain in his eyes was reflected back at me, but it was no longer mine to worry about.

I hit him again. And again. The sound of the hammer against bone was a rhythm now, a heartbeat that synchronized with my own. Each strike sent a fresh burst of blood across the studio, and with each strike, the image in my mind grew clearer. The painting would come alive. The blood would be the color, the canvas would hold it, and the violence would bring it all together.

Cooper's body became a mess of flesh and blood, a twisted work of art. His face, once full of fear, was now barely recognizable, his skull caved in under the blows. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Not until I had what I needed.

When I finally stopped, his body was nothing but a mangled heap, the floor around him slick with blood. But the painting—it was just beginning. I dipped the brush into the blood on the floor, swirling it around to get the perfect mix. It was dark, rich, almost black in places, but it was beautiful in its own way.

I worked quickly, my hands moving in a frenzy as I painted. Each stroke was calculated, deliberate. The painting took shape, a chaotic, violent portrait that felt more alive with every moment. The blood added a depth to it that no normal paint ever could. This was real. This was raw.

When I stepped back, my breath heavy in my chest, I saw the work for what it was. A masterpiece. There was no other way to describe it. The violence had bled into the canvas, and the canvas had come alive with it. The rawness of it—the beauty of it—was something no one had ever seen before. It was mine.

I cleaned up as best I could, but I left the bloodstains on the floor. It felt fitting. This was part of the process. The mess, the chaos, it was all part of what I had created.

When the buyer came, I didn't say a word. He marveled at the painting as he had the first one, but there was no recognition in his eyes. He didn't see what I had done. He didn't understand the depth of what he was buying. He simply saw art. And that was enough.

He paid me without a second thought. His money was as clean as ever. But mine—mine was stained.

And I would do it again.