The Painter's Blood: A Short Story
An autumn breeze blows through the chilly night air as a man works in his high-end art studio. However, he did not use his proper painting tools. He was using a scalpel and two long, plastic tubes. He was not painting on a canvas with standard paint. He was working on a human being. He had already put the two tubes into the person’s subclavian blood vessels, getting ready to drain the person of their blood and use it for his own sick, twisted artistic expression. Knowing that the process would be long, he put on some music. The music was classical opera and it was popular during its time, but that did not phase him at all. The eerie silence of the person being drained was more than comforting to him, giving him time to listen to the sound of the opera that filled the room. When the song ended, he would let it go onto the next one without even moving a single inch.
Replacing the victim’s blood was never an issue. Whenever the body was fully drained of the material he needed, the blood was simply replaced with a preservative that would keep them looking as beautiful as when the person was alive. Once that process was over, he would look at his victim. The victim was once a young girl with big dreams ahead of her, but now… she was just a beautiful corpse. The painter was chuckling at a thought he had. Some people say that New York City is the place where people could make it big. Well, he thought, you could make it big… if you were a part of his masterpieces. He finally stopped gazing at his beautiful victim, who became his disposable paint canister and got ready to drop the body off. He carefully picked the body up and brought it to his raven black Cadillac, putting it in the trunk. After that, he got into his car and began driving to a very quiet and isolated area in the woods. The night air was cool and refreshing as he had laid down the body in a peaceful position. He moved the hands to where they could rest on their chest. He made sure that the body was beautiful, despite the fact that he drained the vital essence that kept her alive.
Once the body was carefully placed in the woods, he went back to his car and drove back to his studio. He cleaned up his operating table and medical tools with gloved hands, putting them back in the proper place. After that, he began containing the blood he collected in mason jars. It was now 2 o’clock in the morning by the time he was done with containing the blood and cleaning the operating table and medical tools. He had an idea in his mind as he finished cleaning up. He wanted to make a new masterpiece with the newfound medium he had collected, He went and grabbed an assortment of paintbrushes, along with a bright white canvas and some other paint colors to help disguise the blood’s true colors. He worked long and hard into the night, creating a dark and mysterious painting that could attract the abstract and creative minds. It was almost 6 o’clock by the time he had finished this demented work of art. He had created an abstract painting that depicted the story of Little Red Riding Hood but in the most sinister way possible. The meaning to some people would be thought of something terrible that could be happening in his life, while others would think that it was just a very strong work of imagination that had been inspired by a classic children’s tale.
His work had become well-known and he felt very proud. He would work on his paintings with the blood of the girl he killed, making more dark and demented paintings. Each painting got darker with each new canvas. All of these gruesome paintings were inspired by the many fairy tales that entertained children. Hansel and Gretel… Beauty and the Beast… Sleeping Beauty… He did them all in such a fashion that made it both beautiful and terrifying at the same time. He captivated the many and terrified the few. His dark fairytale paintings were the most popular paintings in his studio. The demand had increased for these dark beauties and he did not disappoint. When he ran out of blood for these dark creations, he simply got more from another innocent victim. Nobody had suspected a thing. Everyone was oblivious.
The autumn turned to winter, the winter turned to spring, and the spring turned to summer. Despite the change of the season, he was still popular for the dark fairytale paintings he had made. When those were done, he did personifications of the most difficult subjects known to man. Disease… Famine… Murder… He did it again with the smooth stroke of a bloodstained paintbrush. He gave these hard subjects a life and a body, making them much stronger than ever before. Many years would pass and nobody knew what he had done, except for the ones who were drained by him. Silence reigned in his quiet studio and peace seemed to be in his grasp. A new autumn night took over as the retirement he had become a simple one. His works would be sold and he had an inheritance set for when he died. He relaxed in his red fauteuil chair and smoked a simple Dalia cigar. The smoke seemed to move like a fog and spread out around him, keeping him distracted. He was about to fall asleep until he heard an eerie moan fill the cool autumn night air.
This snapped him into attention. He looked around, feeling quite unnerved from the sound. He got up from his chair and searched his studio, wondering where the sound of the moan came from. Then, he thought he heard footsteps run around as he turned around. He thought he saw a familiar figure running around. He followed it, trying to call out to it. It ignored him and went into the room where his greatest works were. He ran after the figure and went in there, stopping to catch a breath at the edge of the doorway. When he looked up, he was met with a terrifying sight. His actions had come back to haunt him. No… they actually came back for something more. They came back for revenge. Fear had taken over him as he ran for the door, which had suddenly closed itself and locked up. He tried to escape, but they would not let him. They could not speak, but their motives were clear. They had a rope in hand, along with a bright white bucket with them. They were going to do what he had done to them; drain him of his blood. The ghosts had everything ready within a few minutes. He was hung upside down and he begged for his life like he was some innocent soul. The ghosts were not going to be fooled again by him. They had him right where they wanted him. One brandished a silver knife and did the honor of slitting his throat. The ghosts watched as their murderer was being drained like an animal. When that deed was done, they painted a message in blood and left with the corpse of their killer.
The message had read…
“The Painter’s blood has been spilled to compensate for our own…”
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