Page 66 of Painter's Obsession

Taking a deep breath, I sit in front of him, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on both of us. “I was thirteen when it started, her lessons. I wanted to be an artist, maybe travel. I never thought about marrying anyone. All I wanted to do was create.”

I reach for the tray of carving tools, the silver instruments gleaming. The room smells of alcohol, blood, and sweat—a perfect medley for what’s to come. “I still remember the first time I painted using watercolors. Her first lesson, ‘Art is sexual’ but not a career. That’s what she told me before she removed her silk black robe and exposed her naked flesh to me.”

I pour more alcohol onto a clean cloth, the liquid splashing onto the floor as I prepare the canvas—his ribs. The cloth presses against his side, and he flinches, the muscles in his stomach rippling. “This is going to hurt,” I say simply, removing the cloth and picking up the scalpel. The first slice is shallow and deliberate. Blood beads up instantly, trailing down his side.

“You know,” I add casually, “life was perfect for a while. I was just another accessory to my parents, left alone to create. Then one day, I found out how much I liked the color red. My father’s brain splattered across a canvas after a single shot to the head.”I mimic the motion with my fingers, forming a gun and pressing it under my chin.

Byron’s head lolls slightly, his eyes glazing over. I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “After that, my mother stepped in. She drank—often—but when she wasn’t drunk, she was teaching me new lessons. Turning me into this.” I pull my hand away, allowing his head to slump forward and continue to carve.

The scalpel carves deeper now, forming the curve of a rose petal. The flesh resists, but I work slowly, methodically. The blood pools, dripping steadily onto the floor. I pause to admire my work, the outline of the petals begins to take shape.

“I wish you could talk,” I say, glancing up at him. “It’s kind of boring talking to myself all the time.” A short laugh escapes me, but it quickly fades, replaced by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the rhythmic drip of blood.

I continue to carve into his ribs, the blade precise and deliberate. His head hangs low, his arms straining painfully from being suspended for hours. I can hear his ragged breaths, each one a testament to the pain coursing through him. Skin carving is gnarly work, I know, but it’s necessary. Actions have consequences. I told him that, didn’t I?

He should be grateful I didn’t go after his sister instead. The thought of Gabriela tied up and pleading for her life flickers through my mind, and a smile tugs at my lips. But no, Byron deserves this—he earned it.

The carving takes shape under my steady hand—a hand holding a rose with a delicate stem adorned by three sharp thorns. I finish the last thorn, sitting back to admire my work. His ribs are inflamed, the raw lines swollen and glistening with blood. The crimson trickles down his side in thin rivulets, each drop a tiny masterpiece. My lips part as I exhale, shaky and slow, taking in the grotesque beauty of it all.

Grabbing a cloth from the rolling cart beside me, I pour alcohol onto the pristine fabric, soaking it thoroughly. I press it firmly onto the carving. Byron’s body flinches violently, his muscles taut like a bowstring, but he doesn’t scream. Instead, he groans, the sound guttural and raw, like an animal caught in a trap. Slowly, his head lifts, and our eyes meet. “It could always be worse.” I say before standing from the stool and walking towards the counter. I look at the time on my second phone that I keep stored in the studio for situations like this. Almost 7 a.m .and nothing from Gabriela. Using my spare phone, I unlock it, find her number and type out a text message.

Good morning, I know you said you wanted some space but I wanted to check on you.

Using the small coffee maker in the studio, I brew myself an instant cup of Espresso, black–nothing but the bitter taste of coffee beans as I watch Byron sleep. His chest is rising slowly. . It’s been a couple of hours now and it’s almost time for him to begin to come out of it. I didn’t give him too much sedative, it wasn’t like I was prepared to use it on him but thankfully I always keep some on hand, ready to be used when I need it.

Finally awake, “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

Byron’s head moves up, his eyes finding mine, full of hate, full of rage. He looks utterly perfect. His eyes looking very much like the portrait that hangs in my office.

“Why did you have to go and do that?” I ask, my voice soft, almost amused.

He scoffs, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. “It’s crazy that you even have to ask. You just fucking carved me up.” he croaks, his voice hoarse from lack of use. I watch as he grimaces when he tries to move. I wonder what hurts the most at this point; his dick, his arms or his ribs. I walk over to him, grabbing the bottle of alcohol and the cloth to clean up the blood that continues toooze. A nice, good-old wake up call his body jolts to the side at first, but that ends up being all the reaction he gives.

I press the cloth harder, watching his jaw tighten, but he doesn’t flinch. Pain doesn’t scare him—not physical pain, at least. That’s what makes this so delicious.

“You know,” I say, pulling the cloth away and watching his stomach muscles relax, “I would’ve let you recover before I started working on you. But no, you had to play hero. You took your chance. I get it. You wanted to save yourself. Noble, but unnecessary. Your life was never at risk.”

His eyes narrow, dark brown pools of fury and defiance. “Oh really?” he snaps. “I’m supposed to believe that after you killed my friend?”

I set the cloth back on the cart and stand, the stool scraping against the floor as I rise. I walk toward him, my bare feet echoing in the quiet studio. Grabbing his chin, I tilt his head back, forcing him to look at me. His pulse thrums beneath my fingers, quick and panicked. Perfect.

“Yes,” I say, my tone calm, measured. “My intention was never to kill you. You’re a project, Thorn. A living, breathing art piece. You were never in real danger.”

His eyes widen slightly, the realization sinking in. “You’re sick.”

“Perhaps,” I smile.

“But,” I add, leaning in until our noses brush, “like I told you before, I don’t like to repeat myself. And now, I have to show you how serious I am about that.”

My grip tightens on his jaw, and I feel his pulse quicken. “My mother always said actions have consequences. What those consequences are…well, that depends on you.”

I press my lips against his jaw, inhaling the salt and copper of his skin. My tongue flicks out, tracing the edge of his jawline, tasting him. He’s filthy—mud, sweat, blood, and somethingfaintly metallic. Maybe residual cum. He flinches under my touch, his body rigid, but he doesn’t pull away. He can’t.

“Don’t hurt her,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Do whatever you want with me, but don’t hurt her.”

I bite down on his flesh, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make him gasp. “Don’t get hard now,” I murmur, my hand trailing down his chest. “It’ll hurt.” My fingers brush against his growing erection, and I chuckle softly. “See? Even your body knows its place.”

“Fuck you, bougie bitch,” he snaps, his voice laced with venom.

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