Artist

August 7, 1888

It's...beautiful.

I found a woman. A lady of the night. Honestly, I didn't know of any other way to turn. The ladies of the night are built for sin, yes. And because of this, they possess a natural allure to men. Their bodies and even their essence is enticing to the weak-willed. I did not get her name, I merely found her at the whore house, do excuse my uncivilized term. Nevertheless, after a brief introduction, I took her home. For a completely different reason than the one she thought, I'm sure.

Her bewilderment when I took her into my work room with merely a canvas and esel positioned in the center and a stool behind. I explained my delimma to her and she gladly accepted to model. I kindly declined her offer to pose nude.

The brush strokes cast color onto the blank canvas, coating its pale surface with a layer of fleshy hue. Her skin was pale and smooth, oh-so-delicate was her face, light blush to her cheeks. Soon, I reached the start of the dress she wore. Crimson. It was an...unnatural shade of red, something I wasn't entirely sure of how to make by mixing colors. Nevertheless, I tried and tried and tried. Failure each time. Then it hit me.

Blood.

Her dress was not wine red, not even rose red. It was blood red. I knew what I had to do.

I lunged at her and drove the steel end of the brush into her neck, ripping out the opposite end to as to not allow her to scream. I could not afford anyone to interrupt my work. She flailed about, trying to make a howl for help, but the only thing that bellowed from her throat was blood. A perfect match to her elegant gown. She thrashed about here and there before the life fled from her eyes and she lay still.

I smiled.

I dipped the tip of the brush into her gaping mouth, walking back over to the canvas, finishing the painting. Her face had already been preserved by my careful eye before it had the expression of fear carved on it. I finished the dress, taking a step back.

Damn it all.

It was beautiful, no doubt. But something was missing. I let out a roar of frustration, throwing the esel and canvas to the ground. I picked up the canvas, carried it to the storage room that stood behind where I sat, opened the door, and cast the canvas into the room, already piled high with failure. I need a new subject.

But first, I must dispose of the body.