Page 117 of Property of Necro
Always…horny.
I slap my erection and curse it for existing.
It’s sin.
Pure sin.
The organ.
The pleasure it gives me.
No One deserves nothing.
No release.
No goodness.
I am a vessel too.
A bag of flesh for use.
Sweat drips into my eyes as I shove the bag of meat toward the door for Creature to deal with. He always does. He never asks questions or pushes me to stop. He gives me food and water and lets me paint.
I love to paint.
To carve.
To create art.
Body art.
Dark art.
It’s sin.
I know.
I was punished for it as a child. When I was supposed to be sleeping, I’d draw. I dreamed. I wanted more. To do more. To see more. To know more.
They burned the drawings and my dreams. They burned my fingertips for using them for anything but their will.
I’m the sinner.
The failure.
Dipping my hands into the bucket, warmth coats my flesh. I close my eyes and sigh.
This is much easier to work with. For drips. For smoothness. The perfect viscosity, fresh from the vein.
I cup my hands and fling crimson across a blank wall. The one I haven’t touched yet. Streaks of splendor coat the concrete, soaking into the nooks and crannies… and so I paint.
For hours.
Days.
Weeks.
Who knows?
