Something I wrote for my English Language A-Level…

I stare at my reflection, although I do not see my own face. The mask tears a hole in my vision, its darkness creeping from behind my skull. I want to blink; to be rescued from the daunting mass that is myself, if only for a brief moment. But I can’t. I’d made sure. Once upon a time, closing my eyes almost got me killed. So I grabbed a razorblade and ensured my survival. The light of the mirror flickers, and I’m abruptly brought back to reality. No time for stories, little one, I have a job to do. The cellar door is locked, and for a moment, I could have forgotten. But memory is key in this place.

As the slow orange hue begins to fade from the windows, I embrace the night with open arms. The clouded black is almost therapeutic, and the silence reminds me of the true pleasure of one’s own company. The time has come at last. Of course no-one else knew. It was a secret. My secret. One worth keeping. If this secret was to be…accidentally exposed…it would result in a fate worse than death. And I would be the one to provide.

Stepping down towards the cellar door, I sense a presence, but hear no movement. I peek through the keyhole, but see only darkness. The key burns my skin, and the rope from which it hangs suddenly feels heavier around my filthy neck. I lift it and slowly open the door. I quickly smell the sweet scent of life. Nothing else satisfies me more. The adrenaline, the heartrate, the sweat. I take in the scent of dust, rubble and ash until the moonlight softly brings something into view. It comes to my attention that the pretty little thing is sat on the other side of the room, still asleep. Her breath creating a silver fog around her shattered nose, beads of water emerging from her skin and racing towards the ground; a beautiful crimson covering her forehead, and a deep violet covering her wrists. It’s amazing how splendidly weak these beings are.

A rush of cold liquid throws her eyes open, and I begin to feel her veins rushing with red. The rush I’d been waiting for had finally begun to arise. The sensation of life. The miracle of blood. The drumming inside her chest begins to quicken, creating something so impossibly divine. I caress her cheek with my dirt stained hand, her skin like silk against my dry and broken fingers. Her mumbles don’t phase me as she tries to make contact through the fabric between her lips, their sounds never do. She struggles to move away from me, but I pay it no mind. I’m focusing on the prize.

Now to choose my tool. I like to consider myself an artist, and my canvas is very particular. I choose my personal favourite. The handle makes my nerves tremble, as though electricity is being run throughout the entirety of my being. It’s the calm before the storm. My steps are heavy as I get closer. The pretty little thing is struggling more now, the rope tears her skin, but I can’t let her get a head start. Not before I reach my climax. My beautiful tool begins to take control of my limbs. The delicate strokes filling my palette with shades of bittersweet scarlet. And as I hear the beautiful sound of life, soon follows the crepuscule tranquillity of death.

Echoes rumble between the desolate walls, deepest red stains my skin, although it is not my own, it tastes just as sweet. The life of an artist, is truly, one of the best.

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