Liquid crimson splashed upon the canvas. Such a rich, marvelous color that was, the color of life itself, the precious vitae that made all life possible. It was His favorite color, especially when the canvas still breathed, still held onto that miniscule, diminishing thought that there was still a sliver of hope left.
All of His work was preciously treasured, and this time it was no different. However, this certain work amused him greatly. Such vivid attitude this one possessed beneath the sweet morbidity of his graceful artistic influence. The young man, possibly in his early twenties had been attracted, as all the rest were, by His magnetic, astonishing, charismatic presence. But among the fluttering crowd, it had been him who had been honorably chosen to accompany the worshipped artist back to His apartment. Many dreamed of making that very trip, to climb those stairs into the very space where He created His cherished art. Little did the young man know of the fate that awaited him.
Tybalt. The beautiful, virtually God-like Tybalt stood before the shattered, yet nevertheless beautifully bound figure of the young man. He liked to tie them securely to the wall; He had to, you see. How else would He get the flawless results He wanted if the canvas did not hold still? Imperfect art was unheard of, especially by one of his caliber.
Perfection was everything. Sometimes, when a single carved line did not come out as desired, He would get so angry that He would simply dispose of the ruined, unfinished piece and start all over again with a new one. There was no room for failure here; He would not allow such audacity.
Throughout his experience, He always found himself curious and eager to experiment with his work. He had long ago decided that of all his artistic brushes, he preferred the trusted surgical scalpel the best. Such a clean, perfect cut – also the one that drew the most blood. Blood was a necessity in his work, as it added a dark, melodic affect to the piece. Many times, He would play with them; toy with them and double check with Himself which method gave Him more joy. And so He did, a cool eerie smile always present upon his thin, luscious lips.
It was simply an amazing thing, this scalpel. If He slid the blade graciously slow over the thin skin, not applying much pressure, liquid red would immediately pepper to the surface. This created an almost abstract look. On the other hand, if the cut was made rapidly, careless of the deepness, then the blood would gradually begin to drip from the fresh wound – but how it flowed! This gave his work a more classical morbid mood. He enjoyed both equally as the reaction was not very different.
The screams were delightful, the pain soaring through each one so very clearly. It was enough to raise goose bumps on his on flesh. Those treasured sounds did not always last very long, through. They usually died out after some time with the softest of groans – His pet knew that release had finally come and embraced it willingly. His beautiful canvas had no more life to offer.
He always felt a sliver of sadness as He watched them go, as they gave up on their will to hold onto the non-existing hope of survival. This, however, meant that he had once again been successful in his job and – this – was the greatest reward of them all.