Page 21 of Pink Ink

I tear a strip of duct tape, then slap it over his mouth, sealing it shut along with the appendage.

Finally, quiet.

Or at least it would be if Matthew didn’t ruin the silence.

Coughing ensues. The thrashing amplifies. He manages to lift his hands and spray crimson over the perfectly white rug.This motherfucker. It was meant to be ironic. A bloody massacre beside a pristine, picturesque scene. Juxtaposition. The duality of man, and the unreliability of what meets the eye.

Am I so incapable of creating a masterpiece now? This was meant to be my failproof Holy Grail, and—

I take a deep breath. It isn’t too late. I can still salvage this.

There’s no such thing as perfection in art. There will always be the one stroke that could have been better, or the dot spotted too late.

The tip of the knife trails down the column of his bobbing throat, down to the jugular, where the knife spears through skin and is dragged down his chest to the spot above his belly button. The second and third incisions follow, diagonal lines across his chest that intersect over his heart.

It isn’t straight enough.

He’s squirming too much. The cut is too jagged. I’ve ruined it.

No, I can spin this. It’s an imperfect line on an impure soul. It’s a metaphor. I have to trust the process.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I rise to my feet and scrutinize my piss-poor art piece. What is this? I don’t want the police to see this. It has to be my worst kill to date.

There are galvanized nails waiting for me in my kit. Yet I don’t have it in me to nail his eyes open. The concrete mixture I was going to pour into his ear is going to waste as well.

What would be the point of doing more? I’ve fucked the whole thing up already. My anger swells the longer I stare at the so-called art.

Out of touch.

Out offuckingtouch.

I grab the lamp beside me and throw it across the room. The space plunges into darkness, so I no longer need to witness the evidence of my failures.

I was going to call thisThe Rule of Three, but this is too embarrassing to be given a name. I’m a pathetic excuse for an artist.

My hands wrap around anything I can get my hands on: beer bottles, tables, chairs, nothing is free from my grasp as Matthew swallows his last breath. Furniture and ornaments go flying around the room in a haphazard mess. I don’t stop until the fury boiling in my veins threatens to topple me over. Only then do I step back to survey the destruction.

I know what this night should be called.

End of an Era.

REYNA

It’s another dreary day that looks like it will only get worse. My coat does nothing to stop the chill from cutting into my bones, and somehow, power walking to the subway makes me exponentially colder.

It’s only minutely better once I’m seated inside the car. I still can’t feel my fingers, and it makes it hard to grip my pen and scribble down my ideas into my notebook for the next assignment.

It was the Shadow’s kill. I’m certain of it.

Every mark on the victim’s body appeared intentional. The incisions down the middle of his body are artful, like he measured out the proportions to get them exactly right. And the missing ring finger—Was he an adulterer? Why the blunt knives through the wrist? Was it to demoralize the victim?

Böcklin’s Shadow is meticulous in his set design, but the subject isalwaysthe focal point. Nothing is overlooked, whether it’s the cushions’ layout, the odd way a throw has been folded, or even the amount of water sitting in a nearby cup.

Sure, this scene screamscrime of passion, but I think something happened to cause the upheaval of the room. He might have gone wrong somewhere and tried toscrap the painting.