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I couldn’t, so I had to settle for blood.
I’d always been an artist, but things didn’t really click for me in school. Ironically enough, I never got good grades in any art class. I found the mediums they used so… let’s just sayboring. And cheap. There was only so much you could do with Crayola crayons, markers, and the cheapest paint on the market.
This was Eastcreek. The town wasn’t exactly rich like we were.
No, it wasn’t until I’d discovered a hawk tearing apart a squirrel in the backyard when I was eight that I realized my passion dwelled within the red stuff that kept us all going. Blood really was something special when you thought about it like that. Nothing in this world could compare.
I watched her body drain of blood for what felt like minutes, but in reality, I lost track of time. By the time I pulled myself away from the body and shut the door, locking her inside, I discovered the world outside had turned to one of night.
And Brianna still wasn’t home. That wouldn’t do.
I chose a new blank canvas out of the lineup of various sizes and replaced the one on the easel in the center of my studio. I would wait until she came home, and then I’d go to her. I’d go to her and make her regret avoiding me this past week. My uncle was right. I shouldn’t have let her do it. I should’ve put my foot down.
Let her hate me. At least hatred was fun, so much more fun than boring old love. Besides, I didn’t think someone like me could love in general. The closest thing to it would be the respect I had for Alistair—and that was only because my uncle was a monster like me.
He’d just learned to contain his impulses better. I supposed that would come with time for me.
After moving the used canvas to the wall, where the others were, I wandered to the fridge, where I kept my paint. The good stuff, anyway. The screen on the fridge door came to life, and I input a different code to unlock it.
Had to be careful, blah, blah, blah. It was Alistair’s doing. I supposed it made sense; couldn’t let just anyone poke their head into this particular refrigerator.
I opened the door, taking a moment to stare at the various containers inside. All of them were secure, their lids on, so you couldn’t see inside. Still, I’d labeled my paints, the purer ones, at least. Right now, my favorite color was one called Horace. For an older gentleman, his blood was surprisingly thick and deep in hue.
I tried not to kill indiscriminately. It wasn’t like I walked the halls of Eastcreek High, pointed, and loudly declared my next victim. No. Usually, my kills were opportunistic ones, something I did when I felt the need for a new color.
Or when I was bored, hence why my uncle got Brianna for me, to try to keep me entertained.
This chef was the first person I’d killed out of anger. It was a slippery slope I neared; if I started to kill whoever I wanted, within a year, all of Eastcreek would be in my fridge. I’d need to fill this place with refrigerators to keep my paint cold and preserved until I used it.
I got out a few choice colors, doing a little mixing over the sink. Some of them, I liked to water down. Others I liked to mix with some white paint to make it thicker, though in doing so, I also diluted the color.
But sometimes dilution was necessary. You could only do so much with red on red on red; you needed a bit of variation. Over the years, I’d experimented with my mixtures. I was never more creative than I was when I was dealing with blood and how to use it.
What would Brianna think of this? What would she think of me, if she knew the truth about me? If she saw the darkness resting within my heart and my soul, would she run away? I recalled the work of hers I’d seen. I wasn’t the only one fascinated with what lay under the surface of the skin.
I doubted she was like me. I doubted it very much.
Hours went by. I didn’t eat anything, too engrossed with my current project to tear myself away from it. I preferred more abstract works, but this time, I was working on something a little different, a closeup of a face—and that meant I had to use other colors. I took a page out of Brianna’s sketchbook. Half the face had skin, the other half didn’t.
Or it wouldn’t, once I got to it.
It was after midnight by the time I pulled myself away from it and washed up. Just for kicks, I checked my phone for any messages from Brianna, but there was nothing. She must’ve come home while I was painting and not cared enough to come find me.
Well, let’s rectify that, shall we?
I exited the pool house, making sure it was locked before walking to the main manor. I saw not a single light on in the house. With purpose in my step, I headed upstairs, to Brianna’s room. If she stayed the night at her friend’s house… by fuck, I might just drag that friend of hers here and kill her in front of Brianna to make my fucking point.
My uncle was right. I had to show Brianna who was in charge here and, hint, it was me.
I cracked my knuckles as I went up the main staircase, taking two at a time in the darkness. I didn’t turn on a single light; I could navigate this house’s halls with my eyes closed. Anticipation thrummed in my veins. You’d think, after being pretty busy this afternoon, I’d be tired, but I was wide awake. There would be no sleep tonight.
I stopped only when I reached Brianna’s bedroom. The door was closed, the light off. I tried the handle and found it was locked. The stupid girl, thinking a lock would keep me out. Didn’t she know the locks on these handles could be undone by a simple butter knife? Come on.
As easy as it was to go to the kitchen and grab a butter knife, it still irked me to have to go out of my way to do it. I made it back to her door, and within moments, I had it unlocked and was slipping inside, my hand still holding onto the knife.
She was lying in bed. The curtain on her windows was closed, but I knew her back faced me.
I approached the bed, wondering how I should wake her up. Of course, she’d be sleeping soundly after avoiding me for days, after ignoring my messages like I was some fly buzzing around her head and not the guy who owned her.
