Post by Amelia on Mar 31, 2017 17:26:42 GMT -5
Amelia
The night was sticky. It had rained early in the morning, and then it had become hot during the day, causing this heavy and stifling breeze tonight. I fucking hated London. It smelled like piss. Piss and pitiful dreams and aspirations. Everyone who lived here were either outrageously pompous, or a struggling "insert dream here". You had your pick of loser wanna be's. There were the artists, creating abstract works of art. If you didn't understand their works it was due to your lack of perception and vision, rather than their lack of talent. I took pleasure in taking these foolish idiots down a few pegs, before killing them.
I remember one of these artists. It was years ago, when I actually believed London had talented people living within its boundaries. I had heard about this man, I don't even remember his name. He was said to be a great decipher-er of human emotion. I had been, and still am currently, obsessed with human emotions. Having lost my own so long ago. I craved to know what love was, I had to know what possessed a mother to offer her own life to save that of her child. It was interesting to me, and of course I used it against the humans I hunted, captured and tortured.
So, I decided to go to his gallery opening. I walked along, like the rest of the people there. Pausing in front of each display, contemplating what the man was trying to convey. He liked the color red. It was splatter on his canvasses left and right, depicting nothing. He had no more talent than a five year old finger painting. After I circled the room I saw him standing there, talking to a gaggle of women. They were gushing at his every word. How mediocre. I continued passed them. Something about me must had stricken a chord in him, because he pulled himself away from the others without so much as an excuse. Rude. He walked up behind me and grabbed my arm. I allowed him to spin me around to face him.
"You are exquisite..." He said, looking me up and down.
I adjusted my weight to my other foot.
"Tell me..." He said, still grasping my forearm. "Did you enjoy my work?"
I smiled. Then I peeled his grubby fingers away from my flesh. "Enjoy would not be the term I'd choose for this..." I looked around, waving my hand to reference his gallery, "art". The word held a slight contempt as it left my lips. "The piece with the child." I said. "That is the only piece worth anything to me."
Instantly he became furious. He claimed I had no taste, I had no sight, and he advised me that he would be willing to take the time to teach me. I wasn't really paying attention. He was dull... Lackluster in every aspect. He had said that was his least favorite piece. Then why add it to the gallery? I wondered. He didn't mention why it had been there.
He explained to me what he was attempting to say with his work. Society was under the rule of someone he claims to be a murderer. The red represents the blood of the innocent... I laughed a little at that point. The murderer was the government. They were suppressing those like himself for having opinions.
I followed him home after his exhibit. I stalked him, snatched him, and took him to my home. There, I tortured him. Burned him with cigarette butts, branded his most sensitive areas with my emblem. A monogram A within a rose. I removed one eye, then the next. Id sewn his mouth closed with embroidery, depicting green vines. I had him a week before he expired from lack of food and water. When I was done with him, I took him back to his gallery. I strung his body up by the rafters, two arms and two legs, all tied to different points. I'd sewn his eyeballs into the palms of his hands, and made sure his palms were facing outward, so he could see everyone that saw him. Then I slit him from neck to groin, allowing his entrails to dangle above the single piece of art that I had liked. It had been the only piece of his that was not splattered with red paint. But it was splattered now. I smiled as I positioned him this way and that.
That man had been made famous by my acts. A visionary, is what the papers had called him. Truly devoted to his genius works... Not likely at all.
I walked over to the fireplace in my home. This home had been mine for centuries now, though I rarely ever visited London anymore. I gazed up and the painting of the child, lost.. alone... terrified on his own. A shadow of a larger person standing above him was cast down upon his face. And blood stained the canvas of its creator. It really was the only piece that I liked.
The night was sticky. It had rained early in the morning, and then it had become hot during the day, causing this heavy and stifling breeze tonight. I fucking hated London. It smelled like piss. Piss and pitiful dreams and aspirations. Everyone who lived here were either outrageously pompous, or a struggling "insert dream here". You had your pick of loser wanna be's. There were the artists, creating abstract works of art. If you didn't understand their works it was due to your lack of perception and vision, rather than their lack of talent. I took pleasure in taking these foolish idiots down a few pegs, before killing them.
I remember one of these artists. It was years ago, when I actually believed London had talented people living within its boundaries. I had heard about this man, I don't even remember his name. He was said to be a great decipher-er of human emotion. I had been, and still am currently, obsessed with human emotions. Having lost my own so long ago. I craved to know what love was, I had to know what possessed a mother to offer her own life to save that of her child. It was interesting to me, and of course I used it against the humans I hunted, captured and tortured.
So, I decided to go to his gallery opening. I walked along, like the rest of the people there. Pausing in front of each display, contemplating what the man was trying to convey. He liked the color red. It was splatter on his canvasses left and right, depicting nothing. He had no more talent than a five year old finger painting. After I circled the room I saw him standing there, talking to a gaggle of women. They were gushing at his every word. How mediocre. I continued passed them. Something about me must had stricken a chord in him, because he pulled himself away from the others without so much as an excuse. Rude. He walked up behind me and grabbed my arm. I allowed him to spin me around to face him.
"You are exquisite..." He said, looking me up and down.
I adjusted my weight to my other foot.
"Tell me..." He said, still grasping my forearm. "Did you enjoy my work?"
I smiled. Then I peeled his grubby fingers away from my flesh. "Enjoy would not be the term I'd choose for this..." I looked around, waving my hand to reference his gallery, "art". The word held a slight contempt as it left my lips. "The piece with the child." I said. "That is the only piece worth anything to me."
Instantly he became furious. He claimed I had no taste, I had no sight, and he advised me that he would be willing to take the time to teach me. I wasn't really paying attention. He was dull... Lackluster in every aspect. He had said that was his least favorite piece. Then why add it to the gallery? I wondered. He didn't mention why it had been there.
He explained to me what he was attempting to say with his work. Society was under the rule of someone he claims to be a murderer. The red represents the blood of the innocent... I laughed a little at that point. The murderer was the government. They were suppressing those like himself for having opinions.
I followed him home after his exhibit. I stalked him, snatched him, and took him to my home. There, I tortured him. Burned him with cigarette butts, branded his most sensitive areas with my emblem. A monogram A within a rose. I removed one eye, then the next. Id sewn his mouth closed with embroidery, depicting green vines. I had him a week before he expired from lack of food and water. When I was done with him, I took him back to his gallery. I strung his body up by the rafters, two arms and two legs, all tied to different points. I'd sewn his eyeballs into the palms of his hands, and made sure his palms were facing outward, so he could see everyone that saw him. Then I slit him from neck to groin, allowing his entrails to dangle above the single piece of art that I had liked. It had been the only piece of his that was not splattered with red paint. But it was splattered now. I smiled as I positioned him this way and that.
That man had been made famous by my acts. A visionary, is what the papers had called him. Truly devoted to his genius works... Not likely at all.
I walked over to the fireplace in my home. This home had been mine for centuries now, though I rarely ever visited London anymore. I gazed up and the painting of the child, lost.. alone... terrified on his own. A shadow of a larger person standing above him was cast down upon his face. And blood stained the canvas of its creator. It really was the only piece that I liked.
