Chapter 12
Quinnly
The Art Man is attractive, in a sad boy kind of way. He’s telling me about his latest painting that’s hanging up via two hooks and nearly invisible wires.
“It’s not finished,” he laughs, “but it’s getting there.”
“Mhmm,” I shrug, I don’t really care. It won’t ever be finished now. Or maybe I’ll finish it for him… An idea pops into my head and now it’s all I can think about. I’m going to finish his painting with his blood.
Glee rushes up my spine and fills my belly. My phone pings with a text.
Shadow: Wherever you’re hiding, I will find you.
My Shadow seems eager now, if only I could get him to come out and really play. If he doesn’t stop me first.
“Are you interested in something finished?” Art Man asks, and I pull myself back into the present.
“I am,” I smile, and he steps back with a familiar look on his face.
Fear.
He stutters over his words as I follow his retreat. I guess all that practicing really doesn’t work when I’m in the moment. My lips curl back, showing my teeth.
“I-I can pull a few pieces from the back,” his voice gets higher the longer he stutters, and I’ve talked to enough people to know that he’s lying. He’s going to run, and my what a treat that will be.
Letting him get far enough that he’s turned a corner, I listen for heavier footsteps and smile when they start once he’s out of eye sight. The old fire station has a few exits, but I’ve mapped this place and blocked all but one.
A rat in a trap.
He hits one of the doors and I can just hear his frustrated panic. His voice carries in the concrete and brick space. Skipping to the doorway he’ll be forced to come through, I wait. Giggles threaten to burst from my throat, but I hold them back.
Anticipation rushes through my veins as his footsteps close in.
They’re hesitant, soft against the concrete.
His nose comes first, then the rest of his face pokes through the doorway.
He sighs and steps through the threshold, assuming he’s alone he lets out a deep breath and chuckles a little to himself.
I can’t help the giggles then, he has no idea I’m standing behind him. My scissors are already in my hand, open and waiting to be used. But, with what I have in mind, I need this to be clean.
Instead of using the blades, I hit him in the temple with the handles. He stumbles, but doesn’t fall, grabbing at his head he attempts to run, and trips. Standing above him, I grip his shoulder and flip him over.
He has no choice but to look at me now, and I tilt my head watching panic bleed into his eyes. “P-Please,” he begs.
I wish he were less predictable, but alas, here we are. Pressing the handle of my scissors into his neck, I wait for him to pass out from lack of oxygen. When his eyes bulge and flutter closed I check his pulse, just to be sure I didn’t end my own fun too early.
Now the work begins. Finding the pulley system that holds up his painting, I crank it down and survey the hooks. I can make this work.
Dragging him closer to the painting I lowered, I let his legs drop with a thud and unhook it. Setting the canvas to the side, I strip him down to his underwear. Wrapping the cords around his ankles I test the crank to make sure they hold.
When the hook catches the bindings, his body jerks and his eyes pop open. A scream startles out of him, and he yells. “What the hell!”
“Good morning! I’m making you the art,” I start to explain, but it’s not morning. That part I embellished for my own amusement.
“Why are you doing this?” He asks, and ugh it’s so boring.
“Because it’s fun, duh.” I roll my eyes, and continue.
“Let me down!” He hollers. “Please! I’ll do anything.”
“There’s not really anything you can do for me, other than letting me drain all your blood so I can finish your painting with it.” I see no reason to lie to him. I’m going to kill him one way or another, I only hope my shadow can find me before I’m done.
“What?! No! You crazy bitch,” he continues as if he has any way to stop me at this point. A laugh pours out of me as I continue to crank him until he’s strung up like a deer ready to be skinned for meat.
His hands reach for me, and I swat them away. “No no, none of that. You got a bucket around here? Maybe two?”
His brown eyes widen even further, pale face going ashen. I guess it’s just now sinking in that he’s going to die. He thrashes around like a literal fish on a hook, as I wait for an answer that never comes. Instead he continues to scream insults and garbage at me as if it’s going to matter soon.
Maybe I should cut his tongue out…
Snooping around the space, I find a mop and bucket sitting in the corner looking like it’s never been used.
“Do you choose not to clean up around here? Or is this part of one of your awful art projects?” I mumble, more to myself than him. Still, he stops thrashing and I can see the tear tracks that flow down his forehead into his messy dyed blond hair.
Positioning the bucket under the right side of his head, I pull my scissors out and caress his face with them as he flinches and pleads. It’s all the same, even the sweet trembling that his lower lip does once he’s exhausted all his bargaining tactics.
Nothing like that surprises me anymore, so I sigh and whisper into his ear like a lover. “Now, be a good boy and stay still for me.”
I know he won’t, so I have to pin his head between my leg and arm that’s not holding the scissors. He’s strong, but I’m stronger, and once I get him locked in, I position my scissors by his jugular. I need all the blood to drip into the bucket to create my masterpiece.
“You’re going to make a great art piece, in your own studio, how poetic!” I laugh, plunging the sharp edge into his neck. Blood sprays, which means I did my job right. I hit the artery so he’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes.
He goes still before attempting to thrash, the body’s usual reaction to shock and blood loss. Holding on to him, I watch as blood pours out of the wound I created and flows into the bucket. Now all I need is for his body to stop jerking and his blood to simply drain.
Then I can really play. There’s a noise in the building, and I twist my head to the side so my ear is pointed in the right direction. Art Man is pretty still, most of his blood’s drained into the mop bucket by now.
My scissors hang by my side while I hold on to his body a little longer. Letting go, I toe the bucket gently into place to catch anything that may still drip, and turn. Movement catches my eye and my heart pitter patters in my chest.
He’s here.
Taking a breath, I turn back to Art Man.
“My Paps would think this is dangerous,” I tell him as his body gently sways.
I’m glad I kept the bag of Paps’s ashes in my pocket and not back at the hotel.
Pouring a pinch of his ashes into the bucket, I use the end of the mop handle to stir his remains in.
Skipping around the studio, I hunt for balloons. Surely Art Man has some laying around, for inspiration or fun. Pulling open drawers, I riffle through them, throwing things over my shoulder until my hands land on a bag of something squishy.
With a squeal, I pull the baggie out and marvel at the water balloons. “I knew it! What artist doesn’t have balloons, right?” I yell out to Art Man, but he is very much dead.
Heading back over to the bucket with extra excitement in my step, I use a spoon I found in the kitchen area to fill a balloon. It takes forever but expands the more I add to it, it’s messy, and blood runs down my hands, over my chipped nails.
Tying the balloon off, I lift my arm and launch the balloon toward all the canvases leaned against the wall. His blood sprays everything, droplets fly up and over the canvas pelting the whole area.
This is so much more fun knowing I have an audience.