Page 34 of Painter's Obsession

The excess skin falls away, its edges jagged and curling, landing in the preserving liquid with a faint plop. It floats there, suspended in the solution, twisting and bobbing as though alive. A fragment of him, now mine forever.

My hand pauses, the scalpel still slick with his blood. The scent is intoxicating, metallic and alive, pulling something primal from deep within me. I bring the scalpel to my lips, my tongue darting out to catch the fresh, warm blood still clinging to its edge. The taste spreads over my tongue—coppery, electric, raw. I close my eyes, savoring it, the essence of him merging with me in a way no one else ever could.

“Fucking perfect,” I murmur, my voice low and breathless as I wipe the scalpel clean with a blood-soaked gauze. The sharp tang of alcohol and the coppery scent of fresh blood mingle heavily in the air, creating an intoxicating blend. My hands are sticky, slick with the mix of fluids, and I smear the remnants across my thighs as though it’s paint.

I run my fingers over the sutures I’ve placed, letting them linger against the coarse thread. The swollen edges pulse faintly beneath my touch, warm and vibrant, the pain etched into his flesh like an artist’s signature.

Who says you can’t mold a Thorn into a flower? Pain is power, and beautiful things must bleed—to be cut down and admired up close. Like me, we will share the same brand.

Chapter Twenty

Ren

Iglance at the clock on the wall. It’s late—later than I’d planned and I need to be cleaned up and ready to go. I’ve already wasted enough time. Still, rushing now would lead to mistakes, and mistakes lead to problems I have no interest in dealing with.

Moving my lovely flower is going to take at least three hours, perhaps more, given the care required. With a sigh, I grab the clear tarp folded neatly by my side and spread it across the dry ground. The material crinkles faintly under my hands, sharp and sterile, a prelude to the artistry ahead.

Now comes the tricky part. I want her limbs to stay angled like a ballerina’s, delicate and graceful even in death. Wrapping her without disturbing those lines will be difficult, but I’m up for the challenge. Carefully, I crouch beside her, the cold stiffness of her body meeting my hands as I lift one limb at a time. The faint crackle of the tarp beneath her sounds like an applause, almost encouraging.

A small mumble or groan interrupts me, pulling my attention. I toss a glance over my shoulder. Byron remains asleep, but the tension in his brows tells me the pain is setting in. His body is catching up to the reality of what I’ve done. Circumcision as an adult is excruciating—I would know. It makes me wonder how unbearable it must be for infants. A fleeting curiosity, nothing more. He’ll adapt to it in time, just as I did.

Satisfied that he remains unconscious, I turn my attention back to her. Methodically, I ease her onto the tarp, her arms bent just so, her legs slightly arched. A little tension remains in her joints as rigor mortis has begun setting in,but I take my time, coaxing her into position like a sculptor shaping clay. Each angle, every detail, must be perfect. She deserves nothing less.

Nothing I can’t handle. At least not yet.

It took me a while to load her into the unmarked white van I keep hidden in the garage. Setting the body up in the park in Cortez turned out to be more of a hassle than usual—too many addicts wandering the streets like ghosts, their hollow eyes catching on anything that moved. Carrying the tarp with her body inside? That was the real challenge. I didn’t want eyes on me or any reason to rush my work.

When I finally reached the clearing, I unwrapped her. The mixture of bleach and water I carried sloshed in its container,ready to erase every trace of her. The acrid scent rose sharply as I poured it over her body, soaking through what was left of her. Necessary. Practical. The small details are what keep me free.

I dropped my backpack and pulled out my pliers. Removing her fingernails was tedious—like declawing a cat, only messier and infinitely more satisfying. No nails, no head. She wouldn’t be easy to identify. Poor Theresa, the waitress who talked so much about ballet dreams and never had the courage to chase them. Now, no one would know who she was, at least not right away.

With that done, I looped the rope around her neck. The other end went around the thick branch of a gnarled tree. Tight knots, steady hands. The rope would hold her upright. That part mattered. She needed to stay perfectly still, a haunting silhouette. A headless ballerina, frozen in time.

I stepped back to admire her. This was the dream she never dared to pursue, brought to life. A wicked smirk tugged at my lips as I let the memory of our first encounter surface. While this flower didn’t last long, she would be memorable. Now she had served her true purpose leading him here. My Thorn. My destiny. I close my eyes for a minute, savoring the moment the chess pieces start moving.

I take a bite of the toast, listening closely to the waitress. You never know when someone might say something useful.

“Ugh, I had to drop out of the studio,” Theresa muttered as she leaned against the counter where they sorted dishes.

The blonde one, Sandra, I think—looks up. “Why? You love ballet.”

Theresa sighs, shaking her head. “I know, but we need money. Mom’s sick all the time, and she can’t work.”

“What about your dreams? You’re so talented—you could get out of here.”

“I’ll die here, like everyone else, Sandra. What’s the point of wasting money on a dream I can’t make happen?”

Sandra’s hands stilled. She stares at Theresa, her voice soft but insistent. “Theresita, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“It does,” Theresa says, her tone flat. “And it’s okay.”

She was right. It’s pointless to dream if you don’t have the will to chase it. And she did die here, in the same place that birthed her and broke her. But I helped her. In death, we made something beautiful—my headless ballerina and I. That’s it. That’s the name.

The idea comes to me while I’m tying the rope around Theresa’s neck. A ballerina frozen in time, her final performance captured perfectly. It’s amazing how inspiration strikes in moments like that. By tomorrow, the news will spread. Theresa will become a star. And me? I’ll be in court, doing what I do best. Watching. Waiting. The pieces are already in motion.

It’s a miracle I manage to set it all up without interruptions. The addicts must be too distracted by their own desperation to notice. By the time I’m finished, the job is perfect—down to the last, gruesome detail. Now, I can go home and shower the night off of me.

Thankfully, I’ve already cleaned the studio. Nothing left behind. No loose ends. I even left my Thorn a little care package—for his cock. It’ll be a while before I visit him, but I’m not unkind. I left him other gifts too. He’ll see what power truly is... no physical contact required. I don’t need to touch him to break him. He’ll understand soon enough.

---