𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐨𝐫

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃

Trigger Warning ⚠️ : violence, blood, gore, self-harm

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If you still think that ghosts and spirits are the scariest things in the world, then perhaps you are a child whose dreams have remained unbroken.

But I'm someone whose dreams were ruthlessly crushed. My dreams were cut several times, they bled and the blood of my dreams reflected in my art.

Cruor Sandburg, a name that would have meant nothing a few years ago, but now, it's the name of a renowned artist. Someone whose paintings portray the cruelty of this world.

As I looked back, I realised that I was pretty messed up since childhood. It's not all my fault.

"Cruor, how many times have I told you to drop this stupid art of yours!? How will you even earn with this crap when you grow up?" My mother's voice rang in my ears as I held my painting close to me. She didn't understand art like I did.

"He will only disgrace us, he's ruining our money by going to school!!" My father yelled at me, I flinched. But apparently they were too old to realise how their child felt.

I scored better in the next test and they brought me gifts. I realised that they were only happy when I did something for them, but my happiness, my talent meant nothing to them.

I grew up, my hobby neglected like I was all my life. I graduated with a degree in law and they felt so proud of me. But I felt disgusted.

I had ignored the voice within me that told me to paint, to pursue art. But what could I do against the people who paid for everything I did?

One day, I decided to listen to that voice. I made paintings again, my talent was still within me. I kept getting better and after having a good number of paintings, I opened a small exhibition in town. My parents were enraged and things became worse when only a few people showed up.
I then realised that nobody in my place was interested in art.

I fled from there.

It was maddening how nobody understood me yet the voice was getting louder each time.

I listened to it again and got a degree in art in the new place. I still had my old paintings with me and I opened up another exhibition there. People showed up. But nobody was excited about it like I was. Nobody felt it like I did.

So I went back home.

And I listened to the voice one more time.

Reaching back home, my parents weren't so happy to see me, instead, they started yelling at me and telling me how bad of a son I was.

If I wasn't good enough.

I would be bad enough.

I killed them.

I killed my parents and took their blood.
I made art with their blood.

In the first piece, a person was screaming with another face inside the one visible. Everyone's two faced, right?

Even I am.

The second piece was a person walking with a faceless man guiding him. People believe anyone.

I then went back to the place where I did art, another exhibition was put with just these two paintings. Many people came, I earned a lot that day.

And that was the start of the journey of Cruor Sandburg.

Everyone praised my art now, the critiques always talked about how unique I was as an artist, about the essence that I had.

Maybe everyone loved the essence of blood and death, knowingly or unknowingly.

My art style was the same, I did blood art. Not with my own blood, but with the blood of my victims. Their cries for help rang like a melody in my mind as I painted with the most natural red.

I recalled killing a man who was just like me, a young man with dreams who thought that the biggest horror was ghosts. He was an artist too, one whose art was lame like mine used to be.

It was a deserted forest, I didn't expect to see anyone, but I did come across a man.
He was sitting near the lake that was hidden by the mass of trees. He was painting, and even though it was beautiful, it was lame. There was nothing new with the style, nothing creative.

I walked closer to him, with a knife in my gloved hand. How could I leave fingerprints?

"W-hat? W-who are you?" He was alerted and stood up.

"An artist."

"Artists don't kill people!" he screamed.

Oh, how I hated screams.

"Everyone has different forms of art, creative forms of art."

I didn't really listen to his cries or screams. My knife pierced through his heart and drew blood. The most beautiful colour.

I collected the blood in a bottle, he was taking his last breaths as he watched me smile at the blood.

"Ps-psychopath..." he whispered, trying to scream.

I pushed him in the lake and was delighted to see the water turn red. Art.

But one day, it was such that even I believed I was a psychopath.

The voice within my head told me to draw my own blood to paint. I listened to it for the last time.

I kept on cutting my body to have enough blood to paint, but when it was finally enough, I wasn't enough.

I was on the verge of death.

There was though, a pattern beside me on the floor, and a pattern on the canvas. They felt like my mental state. Crazy.

I took my last breaths as a criminal instead of an artist. I comitted the crimes of snatching the colours off of the art of life, the art of nature. I killed them.

And there I lay, watching myself die.

It was true, the biggest horror wasn't ghosts and spirits like the younger me thought, the biggest horror was me.

The voice in my head didn't feel like it was in my head anymore. I heard a sound.

"You're a psychopath indeed. Artist? The blood art wasn't yours, it was mine." And that was the voice of a spirit, an evil spirit. An evil, unfulfilled artist.

And I lay there dead, watching as the real artist drew the painting with my blood.

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Word Count : 1048 words

𝗖𝗿𝘂𝗼𝗿 (𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣) : 𝗰𝗼𝗮𝗴𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱; 𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗲

Song : Popular

𝐀 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 :

𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖢𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝖧𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋, 𝖣𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗒 armykoyola