"They say a person's skin is like an onion, you peal one layer off and there is another underneath. But an onion can be pierced and a human's skin punctured. There is an odd fascination in making a person bleed, with sticking them full of needles and nails and watching them moan, unsure if in ecstasy or their own demise.
"It's the point when they squeal, when they beg for no more that I thrive for the most, that's when I know they're broken, that's when I know they've lost the battle and will to hold it all in. And that's when things really get started.
"You start on the edges and work your way in, slowly piercing the skin. My personal favorite here is safety pins. I love how sharp they are and how versatile they can be. I love how you can jam them in as hard as you want and know you won't lose the stainless steel within their body. I love how you can later suck in their screams just as much as you rip them out one by one.
"When their body is riddled in pins and their voice begging you to stop, that's when you pull out the next tool – the razor blade. You slice into them in long streaks. Try to get the cuts to go all the way across their body. Think of how you slit a single layer of an onion right in half. But make sure to keep the cuts shallow, you only want to cut the first layer. You go too deep and you'll kill them off too fast, just like if you cut too deep into an onion and its sweet scent makes you cry. Once your victim has had enough, once they give into the pain and their screams turn to laughter. That's when everything stops.
"That's when, one by one, you pull the pins out. You collect your weapons and store them within a flower. Artwork, pure, thoughtless, artwork. If you ever wondered how to deflower a woman, this, my friend is most certainly how..."
The man in a tightly buttoned black suit with rounded glasses and long arms twisted his fingers into a kind of knot and plopped them heavily on the deeply stained wooden table in front of him. He looked the young reporter in the eyes, but she's unable to make eye contact back, only seeing her own pale reflection.
"But Sir," she starts, resting her notepad on the table and brushing her blond hair back over her shoulder, "You seem to have a dozen flowers in that case back there."
"Yes my dear, oh yes, just one short of a baker's dozen." He gives her a long glare. She's the only other person in this small room, a reporter sent to ask Mr. Jay about his recent art career. She looks down at the table again, noticing the deep red stain, a red stain that seems to lack all rhyme and reason. "Just one short..." He repeats, his lips curling slowly upward.
