Page 15 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

The killer.

The artist.

The piece of flesh falls into my waiting hand. Still warm, still twitching with the last remnants of life. I don’t bother to stop the flow of crimson. The body will take care of that on its own. After all, we are on a tight schedule.

I will teach him a lesson, a very important one. A truth etched into bone and carved into flesh.

Walking to the kitchen, a slice of dark meat in one hand and a knife in the other, I place the flesh on a plate resting on the counter and throw the knife into the sink. Turning on the faucet, washing away the blood from my hands and then from the flesh. It runs down the drainin pink rivulets, the water scorching hot against my skin, but I barely notice.

I pull a pan out and place it on the stove along with a gracious portion of butter, and turn the burner on. Then, I collect some seasonings—garlic, thyme, rosemary, and oregano. Familiar comforts. I add the seasonings to the flesh while I burn the butter with more garlic before adding the main ingredient. Its sizzle is sharp and loud. The scent fills the kitchen, rich and gamey. It smells like something familiar. Something comforting. Funny how the brain doesn’t discriminate—it only recognizes food.

After searing both sides, I wait a bit longer, letting it cook medium-well, tender and savory. The heat pulls the juices to the surface, searing flavor into the fibers. I don’t know if this is the correct way to do this, but instinct tells me it is.

What’s the difference between cow and human?

Nothing.

Nothing if you ask me. Meat is meat. Hunger is hunger. We are all animals.

Chapter Nine

Byron

The hunger continues to torment me, sleeping is impossible, and honestly, I don’t really want to close my eyes. Despite the hunger and thirst gnawing at me, something deeper keeps me awake—something worse. I want to give in, to let him break me, but there’s a voice in my head that tells me to fight.

“Help her.”

Cold fingers trace my jaw, nails scraping my skin. Small, lifeless hands caress my face—Theresita. Her headless body sits beside me, leaning close, whispering like she’s just sharing a secret.

I’m really fucking losing it.

“Stay alive,” she repeats over and over, her voice layering, distorting—no longer hers, but something unholy. My throat tightens, my lips parting as if to respond, but the shape of her flickers like a dying lightbulb, and then it’s my mother’s voice I hear.

“Protect her,” she murmurs.

I want to—I really do—but I’m too weak.

I need food.

I can barely keep my eyes open, but again, I don’t want to close them. I can barely move. This is the longest my body has been without nutrients, and I don’t even know how long it’s been since I last had water. A day? Two? The walls breathe around me. My vision pulses.

I have to admit it.

I should’ve taken the deal.

Just like that, a thin stream of light filters into the space, slicing through the darkness as Ren descends the stairs with a container in his hand.

Food.

My mouth instantly begins to salivate, like a dog needing its bone. Shame burns through me, but not enough to stop the need.

“Good. Still alive.”

I want to punch him in the face. I want to choke the smirk off his lips. But I also want to sink to my knees and rip the food from his hands. It’s pathetic, but survival doesn’t give a fuck about pride.

“No more choices from now on, only consequences. Eat.”

The container hits the floor beside me, the thud loud in the silence. Lifting the side of the red lid, I see the contents inside the clear plastic. Meat. Cooked. Maybe chicken.

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