Collection of Short Stories

Painting of Red

I hold the handle in my left hand and sigh happily. My painting is really coming along, I've been working on it all day after all. I look around it doesn't smell the best in here due to all the different tools and materials that I've been using. Plus being in the basement isn't the best either, with a rhythmic dropping of water from the ceiling plus the scuttling along the floor from the rats. But I shrug, despite the floor being slick I find it easy to maneuver around my work space.

I dance around the room, twirling my skirt as I take in my new masterpiece. I got the idea the other night at the theatre, I can't remember now what the play was called but oh it was most enjoyable. I give a little hum as I check the rigging of my work.

Hanging from the ceiling are heavy chains with hooks, while it's not how most do it, I find it more artistic. I twist the wooden shaft that I hold in my hand, as I twist my head this way and that, attempting to work out what I'm missing. I feel a pressing on my temples as I think hard but the constant dripping is annoying at the moment, usually I enjoy the sound of liquid splashing against the ground but the rain was five days ago and it's very distracting now.

I place the handle onto the table behind me and look at my work closely. They're all right when they say 'practice makes perfect' for I feel this is the best work I've ever done. Maybe...

I hear loud stomping coming from above but I ignore it, perhaps it's the dogs chasing each other about. But before I realise it the noise comes down the stairs, I turn and scowl at the men who stand by the bottom of my steps. The look of horror upon their pale faces truly upsets me. So I turn I pout and look back to my work.

The men then all shout something at me, but that isn't what I hear, the one I hear is the faint whispering from the youngest looking man.

"Why?" He whimpers out.

I laugh, "The devil made me do it."

Yes the devil, my idol Jack the Ripper, never caught, I read all of his stories his art was truly amazing. So I frown. What is wrong with my painting, hanging there the flesh of the man from the theater is painted a beautiful red. As I place my hand on my handle, my most precious knife, their badges reflect the light into my eyes just as the smell of gunpowder and the feeling of pain overtakes me.