Page 14 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

The sound stops beside me.

Close. Too close.

My eyes remain on the shattered white piece of glass, a sharp, jagged remnant, waiting for purpose.

I need to create.

Pain.

“My sweet boy,” her voice purrs, soft,sweet, and wrong, always wrong. I feel her nails–long and pointed–scrape my skull,slow enough to send chills racing down my spine.

“Let Mother make you feel better.”

No.

Moving of its own accord, my hand reaches for the glass. A gift, an offering, a demand. Biting into my arm, I slice downward.

Red.

Bright. Sticky. Right.

It appears on my skin, blooming, warm and thick. The pain is nothing, insignificant, a whisper beneath the roaring in my head. Using my fingers, I dip into the warm blood. It coats my skin, smooth, familiar.

All I see is red.

The blood. Her nails. Her lips as they wrap around my cock. My fingers move towards my face, dragging, smearing, painting.

Red.

So much red.

My cock hardens, my memory pulling me under.

I can’t escape her.

I can’t escape him.

The good thing about being a psychopath is that you have little to no regard for others. Empathy is an inconvenience, one I’ve never had to worry about. I wasn’t only devoid of emotions but also morals. A body without a conscience, a mind without restraint.

I’m always planning, always two steps ahead, watching the board shift in my favor before anyone else realizes they’re a pawn. And with some outside help, I was able to get two birds with one stone. A masterpiece in motion. And this little art project will come to fruition. He will see. He will understand.

I will show him the way, and I know exactly how…

Pushing to my feet, I storm to the small room where my little birdie lies asleep. Soft breaths, the steady rise and fall of her chest, untouched. Unmarked. A canvas waiting for its first stroke. The Rose missing her Thorn—but it’s okay. It’s better this way.

I walk over to her sleeping form, naked and just waiting to be carved into. A perfect offering.

I smile.

Walking back to the kitchen, I grab something that I can use. The lack of my preferred tools is inconvenient, and not having them might prove difficult, but true art is about adaptation. Grabbing the sharpest knife from the block, I head back into the room and get to work. Precision matters. Placement matters. I gently smack her thigh before pressing the blade to her flesh, testing the resistance—the way her skin yields under the slightest pressure.

It’s hard work slicing flesh without the help of a motor, but it’s therapeutic. The pull of the blade, the slow give, and the way the body reacts, even in sleep. To see all the red. To see silent pain in the subtletwitches of her muscles—trapped in her own nightmare. Can’t escape it. Can’t see it, but can feel it.

This I can control. This I can claim.

I need to stop giving room for light to creep in. The darkness suits me—it’s the only thing that ever has.

If I couldn’t be Ren Sato, then I needed to be the Laguna Bay Painter.

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