Page 24 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

The only thing meh here was this journalist’s shitty grasp of the English language.

Overhyped?

Over. Fucking. Hyped.

By who?

The people who paid money to see me? Who bought an overpriced ticket to the gallery’s exhibition just to witness what I’d created with my own bare hands, from my own twisted, and dare I say, fucking unique mind.

Something can only be overhyped if other people make it so. It’s not my fault if people want to hear what I have to say, buy my art, and place me on a pedestal I never wanted to be on.

And then there was the accusation that I was preaching to a demographic that wasn’t in attendance. The only fool here was this reporter, who didn’t know a damn thing about my background and what I’d been through in my life. I wasn’t preaching shit; I was spitting the truth. An ugly truth. Truth that’s uncomfortable for over-privileged assholes to understand or even grasp. It had well and truly flown over her motherfucking head.

Fake blood, corny rhymes, uninspiring.

Who else was putting on the kind of performances that I was in this city, hell, in this whole damn country? This fucker was lucky... honoured in fact to get a front-row seat to a once-in-a-lifetime, never to be performed again, piece of art.

I glanced at the article again, and more importantly, the name of the reporter who published this bullshit.

Emma Belmont, Junior Reporter.

Congratulations, Emma Belmont. You just made it to the top of my shit list, and trust me, it wasn’t a list you’d want to be on. Ask the guy who was currently lying in front of me, strapped to my table, with a gag in his mouth. He’d tell you what happened when you pissed me off.

Fake blood?

You’d think so, wouldn’t you?

But it wasn’t.

The last guy who’d pissed me off had donated his for that performance. The guy currently on my table would feature in the next. But after that, I think Emma Belmont needed to make a contribution.

You think I’m sitting on a pile of cash, laughing at you?

I’ll be sitting on a pile of bones, cursing your name to hell when we finally meet.

I’m an artist.

I take pride in my work.

And I’ll destroy anyone who begs to differ.

And you will beg, Emma Belmont.

You’ll beg with every fibre of your being and with the very last breath you take.

CHAPTER

NINE

EMMA

Isat at my desk, as Mr. Gold walked through the office on Monday morning, with a smug smile and a spring in his step.

“Good morning, team,” he called out to the rest of the office.

I stood up and tried to get close to him, saying, “Mr. Gold, can I talk to you in your office about this morning’s article?”

But he frowned, asking, “What article?”