Page 33 of Painter's Obsession

I bring my crimson-stained hands to my hair, pushing stray strands away from my sweat-drenched forehead. Creating isheavy work, especially when it requires draining a body of its blood and arranging it just right before rigor mortis sets in. It’s meticulous, but peaceful—not any different from baking or pottery. Each action requires care and precision. I lay the body close to the drain, carefully propping her limbs into position before the stiffness takes over. Her body, carved with wildflowers, is beautiful. The flowers are quiet now, not angry or full of life like she had been. They are perfect—devoid of everything.

I glance over at my Thorn and smile. It took him some time to succumb to the sedatives. He hasn’t moved in a while. Perhaps it was the shock of what he saw, or maybe it’s the drugs coursing through his bloodstream. Either way, I know he’s out. There isn’t much left of Theresita’s face—or her head, for that matter—so she will be namedThe Headless Woman.It feels right. It suits her.

Returning my attention to my flower, I let my body drop until I’m sitting naked in her blood and brain matter that is pooling between the drains. The sticky warmth of it all clings to my skin, sliding between my thighs.“As the World Caves In”by Matt Maltese plays softly in the background, a melancholy soundtrack for creation. I close my eyes and follow the nightmare back to where it all began.

Lying on her chest, her exposed breasts hot and sticky against my skin, I breathe in the faint, lingering scent of sweat and roses. “Women like flowers, Ren,” she says, her hand stroking my hair with slow, deliberate movements. “When you love a woman, you have to show it. Do you love me, Ren?” Her voice trembles, cracking slightly at the end.

I twirl the red rose in my hand, its thorn protruding long and thick—such an ugly thing for something so delicate.

“Why do roses have thorns?” I ask, ignoring her question as I let my cheek rest against her chest, our bodies still slick with sweat from her lessons.

Her hand freezes mid-stroke. The stillness is palpable, the air charged as her heartbeat slows beneath my ear. Her free hand moves to mine, her red-polished nails trailing over my thumb, the press of each stroke deliberate.

“Because being beautiful is dangerous. And pain is power,” she says softly as she presses my thumb against the thorn, the sharp sting breaking skin. I don’t react, but my cock does, stirring against her as I listen to her heartbeat quicken. Crimson trails down my thumb.

“Beautiful things aren’t meant to be admired from afar. You need to get close, even if you have to bleed for it. And if it resists? You simply cut it down.”

I shake my head, freeing myself from her claws, and turn my attention back to the dead woman in front of me. Her face—what’s left of it—is unrecognizable, but her body tells a different story. Carved with wildflowers, she’s beautiful now, no longer angry or defiant like she had been. I’ve lost count of how many flowers I’ve watched wither away.

I grab two mason jars—one filled with gray and crimson-streaked, slushy brain matter, the other brimming with rich red blood—and rise to my feet. The sticky residue clings to my fingers as I walk to the counter. Placing the jars side by side, I twist them open. The metallic tang of blood mingles with the faint staleness of death, sharp and familiar. My hands smear faint red streaks across the counter as I reach for the wooden palette tray.

I scoop the contents with a small spatula, blending them on the tray in slow, deliberate motions. The colors emerge too light—pale and fragile, like the faint light that still flickers in my Thorn. My mother’s voice drifts through my mind.

“You aren’t worth the light, not until you can survive the dark.”

That’s what I’m testing here. If the small light he clings to is worth anything at all. I press harder with the spatula, smearing the mixture until it deepens into shades of bluish gray, gray-white, and a darker gray like soot. It’s perfect—lifeless and cold, just as it should be.

With the tray in hand, I gather the remaining supplies I need to bring my inspiration to life. My gaze drifts to him—my Thorn. The darkness around him is thick and heavy, hanging like smoke in the air. He’s still, vulnerable. I just need to pull him into it, snuff out that flicker of light until he can survive me. That’s the masterpiece. He will become my living, breathing muse. The Thorn I cut down and molded.

I lower myself beside his naked, sleeping form. There’s no pretending in these walls—we are all bare and vulnerable here. I sit cross-legged, the tray resting beside me as I dip the brush into the bluish-gray mixture. Naked, I begin to paint the canvas. There’s no image in my mind, just the soft drag of the brush across the surface, letting my hand guide me.

I don’t know what this feeling is that sits within me. It feels similar to how I feel after finishing another successful masterpiece. The warmth spreads through me, starting in my stomach, making it twist and churn before it settles. Satisfaction, or maybe joy. But I’m a void—devoid of any real emotions. That’s what she always said.

“Do you love me?” Her red nails dig into my cheeks, squeezing them together. Frustration warps her beautiful face, but I remain unmoved. The question echoes in my mind, but there’s nothing—not a flicker of emotion, only need. Being inside her was the only time I ever felt anything. Fleeting, yes, but it was warmth. “Do you love me?”

“I don’t feel anything,” the words tumble out, flat and devoid of meaning. Her onyx eyes glisten with tears, though I can’t understand why. “A void?” she whispers, her grip tightening until I feel her nails break the skin. “No emotions. Have I taught you nothing?”

My dick stirs. Like a true experiment, the memory is enough to make me salivate. But I ignore the hardness between my legs, focusing instead on the still form of my Thorn. He lies perfectly still, his chest rising and falling faintly. Devoid of emotions. A void like me.

Placing the canvas and brush on the ground, I crawl over to him, hovering above his sleeping form like a paralysis demon. The room is quiet except for the shallow rhythm of his breath. “Would you love me?” I whisper, nudging his nose with mine. Nothing. Not even a flicker.

My hand drifts to his cock, my fingers brushing over the soft foreskin. Slowly, deliberately, I begin stroking, watching as he hardens beneath my touch. The way his body responds, even unconscious, sends a warmth coursing through me. That’s when inspiration strikes.

“Mine. And what’s mine should wear my mark,” I murmur. “Be branded. I can’t carve your skin or your heart—life and others have already claimed those parts.” My thumb presses against the base of his shaft, sliding the foreskin back. “But this, I can take. A mark. A reminder that you belong to me.”

I lean into his lips, groaning softly as I grind my hips against him, the heat building between us. My hand moves between my legs, grasping both of our hard lengths. “But first you have to survive me… you must bleed for me.” The warmth spreads like wildfire, consuming me as I continue to grind, my hand guiding the motion. When the release comes, it’s perfect—violent, raw, and consuming. Even in sleep, he responds beautifully.

“Beautiful boy,” I breathe against his scarred lip, my tongue tracing along its jagged edge. The rough texture hums against my taste buds, each imperfection a reminder of what’s mine. Slowly, I pull back, bringing my hand to my mouth and licking the sticky essence from my fingers. It tastes of him and me, mixed together—one.

Rising, I walk back to the supply kit. My fingers graze the cool leather of the black case. I flip it open, the steel scalpels glinting under the faint light. Their edges are sharp, surgical, precise. Perfect for this. I pick one up, weighing it in my hand like a painter with a new brush. “I need the first aid kit,” I mutter, cursing as I step away to retrieve it.

Once I have the kit in hand, I return to my previous spot, pulling out the alcohol. The sharp tang fills the air, biting at the back of my throat as I soak a piece of gauze, watching the liquid seep through the fibers until it drips in steady, rhythmic droplets. The Veils’ “Total Depravity” hums softly in the background, its haunting melody perfectly attuned to the moment.

I dab the alcohol over his cock, the cold liquid making his skin glisten under the dim light. His body remains utterly still, lifeless save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. I press the gauze harder, watching the skin redden under the friction, the faint sheen of irritation blooming across his flesh. Perfect. Pristine. Ready.

The scalpel feels cool and unforgiving against my fingers as I line up its edge, its polished surface gleaming faintly under the dim glow. I inhale deeply, the mingling scents of blood and alcohol filling my lungs. The first press of the scalpel pierces the skin, and it gives way with almost no resistance. The sound is soft—a faint, wet whisper as the scalpel glides forward, parting the flesh with precision.

The blood wells immediately, pooling in warm, sticky rivulets that drip down my fingers. The crimson coats my knuckles, stark and vivid, as I work carefully, methodically, each stroke deliberate and exact. His flesh peels back in thin strips, revealing layers beneath—shiny, raw, glistening under the overhead light like wet silk.

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