Page 3 of The Blue Rose
I cut her out of the pink crop top with the words “ironically hot” on them. Her breasts are bare for me to see. At least she wore a fitting shirt for her last time with me, she was anything but hot.
Cutting off her booty shorts next, I see she wore a red G-string just for me. A lamb falling perfectly into this fox's trap. A date she was expecting but would never get, when she arrived hours earlier. Poor thing, probably thought she was finally going to get laid, little did she know I would lay her down forever.
I smirk, slipping them off and putting those on my desk next to her rose.
All of my lambs get their own roses. I take a white rose before every kill and place the petals into blue dyed water. I place it onto my work station and it sits there while I break them apart, and it watches as I put them back together. The slaughter, and the resurrection. The perfect circle of life and death.
After cutting off her clothing and cleaning off all the blood, it's time to sew her back up. All of my lambs must go out of this world the way they came in, and it’s my job to lead them there. Grabbing my sutures, I start to stitch all the wounds I have inflicted. I cut them up to see the pain in their eyes, to revel in it, but I have to stitch them back and clean them up to paint them anew. Having open wounds ruins the integrity of my canvas.
It would be a shame to ruin my favorite part.
Starting with the face first, I close her eyes and repaint them on. Then, I add blush and contour with some highlights, turning my lambs into the person they wished they could be. Turning around to my work bench, I grab the bite block and place it in her mouth; the one a dentist uses to keep their patients mouth open. Next I take out every single tooth, placing them on the instrument tray next to me, then close her mouth.
Reaching backwards to my workbench, opening the small top drawer where I keep all the red lipstick, I select the color that is going to be the perfect finishing touch for my little lamb. I always use red on my lambs because it is the color whores wear. All of them are whores, wanting and pleading to have me, and never succeeding. So it is only fitting for their true selves to be revealed.
My mother taught me early that all women are evil. All have an agenda, a reason for batting their eyes and saying sweet words. She warned, to never give them the chance to entrap you in their smile, before that can happen, end them. She always wore a nude lip, that was her signature color. My mother was awoman of integrity, always loyal to one man. So giving my lambs the opposite color to what my mother wore, is a testament to her.
Next I start to paint her dress on, it is a dark green dress coming down to her knees, with lace sleeves. Bending down into the bottom drawer of my workbench, I pull out the foldable fans. Placing the fans around her body, so the paint hardens faster. As the paint dries, I take the rose out of the dye, placing it into a new empty vase to dry. Then, I start to gather her clothing and throw it onto the plastic on the floor. After all of the evidence is gathered on the floor, I wrap up the plastic. I open the door to my incinerator, throw it all in there, shut the door, and turn it on. By time the evidence is burning, the paint is all baked on, it is time to turn off the fans and flip her over.
Walking back I touch her skin to make sure the paint has fully dried and turn her over to finish the dress on the other side. I take my time, being mindful of each stroke I place along her skin, striving for the subtle imperfection of true clothing. When I’m done, my lamb truly looks as though she’s ready to go out once more.
Turning the fans back on, I let her back dry. I walk to the sink to wash all the tools and dry them, then put them back where they belong. Once everything is back in its designated spot I go back to my lamb to check on the paint. I lightly tap around her body to assure it is all dried, then flip her back over.
Moving down to her feet I start painting on ivory flats to compliment the dress I just finished. Setting my paintbrush down, I admire the feminine quality I’ve given my little lamb. One she didn’t possess in her desperation when she was alive.
Grabbing my handheld blowtorch that sits on the workbench behind me, I grab her hand, and burn off all of her fingerprints. I want my little lambs to forever be Jane Doe’s, forgotten by everyone, but me.
The last thing I do to her, that I do to all my victims, is take three petals from the rose, and place them on my workbench. Then, I open the second drawer taking out super glue to take two petals and glue one petal to each eye. You could say this is my signature.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, and covering her eyes ensures that I was the last one to see her soul… Leave her body.
After I finish remaking her, I lay her to rest fully by taking her hands and have her hold them over her heart. Then I add glue onto the stem of the rose, placing it into her folded hands.
The authorities still haven’t figured out why I do this. It’s simple, the blue rose means unreachable love in some cultures, and in others it means devotion, trust, and love. Well my lambs give me just that, but I will never return it. My heart is just always out of reach, but they don’t accept that, until my knife is plunged into theirs.
The leftover petal is then placed into a book with something I took from her and her name written underneath.
I place the book back in its hiding spot, in the vents under my workspace. I added the vents when I was reconstructing the space to be mine. Mom and dad may not have needed cool air to work, but I do. Before walking over to my little lamb, and gathering her into my arms, I whisper in her ear. “You look beautiful little lamb, now it is time for the world to see you”
Striding over to my 67’ dark blue Chevelle, I place her body into the trunk of my car. Close the trunk, hop in the front, roll the windows down, blast the radio, place my hands around the wheel, and drive to one of my dump locations. Each location is always different from the last, so the cops can’t stake it out to catch me. They will never know where I’ll be dumping next, just that it is always secluded so I never get caught.
TWO
SERENA
Getting lost in my paintings is something that comes easy to me. Knowing exactly where the next stroke of my brush is going, to create what I see in my head, is like breathing. That’s when I create a piece solely for me, my commissions, well that’s a whole other story.
Sighing, I run my paint stained fingers through my coarse dark hair, place the end of the brush in my mouth, and just sit staring at the painting, waiting for inspiration to hit. When nothing comes, I pull my phone out from my apron and call my best friend, knowing she can help spark an idea.
She answers on the third ring, “Ugh” I sigh loudly tossing my paintbrush across the room “I just can’t get it right”
Knowing exactly what I’m talking about she says, “chill babe, you’ll get it, you always do.”
Rocking back and forth, to calm myself, I take a deep breath and say, “you’re right, I know you’re right, but Jess I can’t get this to look how I’m picturing it in my head”
“Well how are you picturing it?”
“Not like this!” I point at the canvas knowing she can’t see it. “It’s the colors, Jess. They’re not right. They’re not comingtogether how I need them to. It’s all wrong,” I let out a huff of frustration.
