Painter’s Obsession

20. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Ren

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s late—later than I’d planned and I need to be cleaned up and ready to go. I’ve already wasted enough time. Still, rushing now would lead to mistakes, and mistakes lead to problems I have no interest in dealing with.

Moving my lovely flower is going to take at least three hours, perhaps more, given the care required. With a sigh, I grab the clear tarp folded neatly by my side and spread it across the dry ground. The material crinkles faintly under my hands, sharp and sterile, a prelude to the artistry ahead.

Now comes the tricky part. I want her limbs to stay angled like a ballerina’s, delicate and graceful even in death. Wrapping her without disturbing those lines will be difficult, but I’m up for the challenge. Carefully, I crouch beside her, the cold stiffness of her body meeting my hands as I lift one limb at a time. The faint crackle of the tarp beneath her sounds like an applause, almost encouraging.

A small mumble or groan interrupts me, pulling my attention. I toss a glance over my shoulder. Byron remains asleep, but the tension in his brows tells me the pain is setting in. His body is catching up to the reality of what I’ve done. Circumcision as an adult is excruciating—I would know. It makes me wonder how unbearable it must be for infants. A fleeting curiosity, nothing more. He’ll adapt to it in time, just as I did.

Satisfied that he remains unconscious, I turn my attention back to her. Methodically, I ease her onto the tarp, her arms bent just so, her legs slightly arched. A little tension remains in her joints as rigor mortis has begun setting in,but I take my time, coaxing her into position like a sculptor shaping clay. Each angle, every detail, must be perfect. She deserves nothing less.

Nothing I can’t handle. At least not yet.

It took me a while to load her into the unmarked white van I keep hidden in the garage. Setting the body up in the park in Cortez turned out to be more of a hassle than usual—too many addicts wandering the streets like ghosts, their hollow eyes catching on anything that moved. Carrying the tarp with her body inside? That was the real challenge. I didn’t want eyes on me or any reason to rush my work.

When I finally reached the clearing, I unwrapped her. The mixture of bleach and water I carried sloshed in its container, ready to erase every trace of her. The acrid scent rose sharply as I poured it over her body, soaking through what was left of her. Necessary. Practical. The small details are what keep me free.

I dropped my backpack and pulled out my pliers. Removing her fingernails was tedious—like declawing a cat, only messier and infinitely more satisfying. No nails, no head. She wouldn’t be easy to identify. Poor Theresa, the waitress who talked so much about ballet dreams and never had the courage to chase them. Now, no one would know who she was, at least not right away.

With that done, I looped the rope around her neck. The other end went around the thick branch of a gnarled tree. Tight knots, steady hands. The rope would hold her upright. That part mattered. She needed to stay perfectly still, a haunting silhouette. A headless ballerina, frozen in time.

I stepped back to admire her. This was the dream she never dared to pursue, brought to life. A wicked smirk tugged at my lips as I let the memory of our first encounter surface. While this flower didn’t last long, she would be memorable. Now she had served her true purpose leading him here. My Thorn. My destiny. I close my eyes for a minute, savoring the moment the chess pieces start moving.

I take a bite of the toast, listening closely to the waitress. You never know when someone might say something useful.

“Ugh, I had to drop out of the studio,” Theresa muttered as she leaned against the counter where they sorted dishes.

The blonde one, Sandra, I think—looks up. “Why? You love ballet.”

Theresa sighs, shaking her head. “I know, but we need money. Mom’s sick all the time, and she can’t work.”

“What about your dreams? You’re so talented—you could get out of here.”

“I’ll die here, like everyone else, Sandra. What’s the point of wasting money on a dream I can’t make happen?”

Sandra’s hands stilled. She stares at Theresa, her voice soft but insistent. “Theresita, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“It does,” Theresa says, her tone flat. “And it’s okay.”

She was right. It’s pointless to dream if you don’t have the will to chase it. And she did die here, in the same place that birthed her and broke her. But I helped her. In death, we made something beautiful—my headless ballerina and I. That’s it. That’s the name.

The idea comes to me while I’m tying the rope around Theresa’s neck. A ballerina frozen in time, her final performance captured perfectly. It’s amazing how inspiration strikes in moments like that. By tomorrow, the news will spread. Theresa will become a star. And me? I’ll be in court, doing what I do best. Watching. Waiting. The pieces are already in motion.

It’s a miracle I manage to set it all up without interruptions. The addicts must be too distracted by their own desperation to notice. By the time I’m finished, the job is perfect—down to the last, gruesome detail. Now, I can go home and shower the night off of me.

Thankfully, I’ve already cleaned the studio. Nothing left behind. No loose ends. I even left my Thorn a little care package —for his cock. It’ll be a while before I visit him, but I’m not unkind. I left him other gifts too. He’ll see what power truly is... no physical contact required. I don’t need to touch him to break him. He’ll understand soon enough.

Pulling into the garage, I park the van and lean back for a moment, my hand resting on the steering wheel. My breath steadies as I pull out my phone from my cargo pants. I scroll through my app folder, my thumb landing on the small blue square that opens the feed to my studio cameras.

There he is—still sleeping. Or maybe pretending. Trying to fool me. But I see the quick rise and fall of his chest, the telltale signs of life. A smirk curls on my lips. Amateur. As if he could catch me off guard, as if this is my first time playing this game.

It’s not.

I’ve done this before. One time, I found a flower who hid her Thorns so well it almost cost me everything. The only flower I ever plucked until there was nothing left but skin and bones.

“Night night,” I murmur, slipping my phone back into my pocket. Opening the van door, I climb out and head inside through the kitchen. I pause in front of the fridge, staring blankly at its cold, silver surface. For a moment, I consider eating something, but the thought feels pointless.

Instead, I move from the fridge without opening it and head upstairs. I walk down the hall to my room, stripping away every layer of clothing and tossing them into a plastic bag that will be discarded tomorrow. Naked, the cold blast of the air conditioner bites at my skin, raising goosebumps.

I think of Byron and wonder if the pain in his cock has stirred him from his sleep. Is he still unconscious, a slumbering beauty, or writhing in agony from the discomfort? The thought curls a slow smile across my lips. Reaching for the floss, I begin my nightly routine. Appearance matters, after all. Even perfection demands maintenance.

Once finished, I clap my hands, and the water in the shower turns on instantly. Thanks to technology, it adjusts to the exact temperature I like. Even my water has to be flawless—hot enough to cleanse, but not enough to burn. I step into the shower, letting the heat wash over me as my hands run through my hair.

Then, the glass door slides open.

I freeze, every muscle in my body locking tight. My hands instinctively move to shield my cock.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” she whispers, her voice low, laced with something I can’t quite place. Shame, maybe.

I look down as her red nails trail slowly down to my abs. “You’ve grown so beautifully,” she says, her voice thick with something both sickening and familiar. “My beautiful boy.”

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. My blood rushes south as her hands move lower, every motion excruciatingly slow. “We’re going to do something about this,” she whispers, tugging lightly at my foreskin. My body betrays me, stiffening under her touch. I just nod, unable to look down at the throbbing evidence of my shame.

My head slams into the tile, the sharp sound reverberating through the steam-filled shower. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block her out. It’s a futile attempt.

The loop never ends.

Not even her death freed me from this. I used to believe that killing her would rid me of my sickness, but all it did was spread it, like a cancer. Vicious. Unrelenting.

Her lessons changed me. I guess, in the end, she did mold me into the perfect man. Or close enough. I consider myself near perfection—the only thing I lack is emotion. But who needs that when you’re young, successful, and rich? The world is full of options, even for someone as fucked up as I am.

It’s guaranteed I could find someone willing to marry me, someone eager to settle down. But that’s not me. I’m too broken to bring kids into this world. My hands ball into fists as the memory hits me like a bulldozer, my body trembling as I relive that afternoon in vivid detail.

I’m slamming into the maid’s tight cunt, trying to recreate the feeling she gave me. But it’s not the same. Maybe because the maid is knocked out—or possibly dead. I don’t really care. That’s what happens when you try to take pictures and blackmail someone.

I couldn’t resist my curiosity. I’ve never been with anyone else. She was my first. And if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, she would’ve been my only.

My hips keep moving, each thrust smearing blood from the back of the maid’s head onto the pristine white marble. Each motion leaves another streak, another swirl, another mark.

The door bursts open.

“What are you doing?” she spits, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

I don’t bother to pull out. It doesn’t matter—she’s dead anyway. I keep going, my pace quickening as her presence only fuels me.

She storms over, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. I hiss, thrusting harder into the maid’s lifeless body, defiance and desire intertwining in a sick knot.

“I’m pregnant,” she hisses, the words like a gunshot in the stillness of the room.

The memory snaps away, and I’m back in the shower. My eyes remain fixed on the white marble tiles, my knuckles turning white from the pressure of my clenched fists.

“Pregnant,” I whisper, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

I grab the soap and scrub my body furiously, trying to cleanse more than just the sweat and grime. My cock throbs, but I ignore it. That’s a problem for later. Tonight, I have other priorities.

Tonight, I’ll show him power. I’ll remind him who’s calling the shots. Only after I’ve shattered his walls completely will I pay him a visit. But first, I want to show him my reach. I need him to understand.

But I also need sleep.

Clapping my hands, the water shuts off. I step out of the shower, grabbing a plush white towel to dry off. Naked, I shuffle toward my bed, collapsing onto it with a groan.

Sleep feels pointless, but it doesn’t matter. Since I work from my office, I don’t have to commute. I can realistically work from anywhere.

Placing my hand on my cock—a habit I picked up as a teenager—I close my eyes and let myself drift toward my own personal purgatory. There is no rest for the wicked. Even in our dreams, the monsters come for us.