"Shhh, shhhh, ssssshhhhhhh... I love you... so much, so, so much. Don't struggle. You scream so deliciously... but I need you to stop moving now, please" the man leered, smiling. He had a kind old face, the type you'd expect to see on a stereotypical watchmaker in a children's movie. His hair was rusty red, boyishly curly, and thin. It lay balding in his somewhat rectangularly shaped head. His eyes were focused, and behind round, brittle glasses. His face was lined - he could have been anywhere between 30 and 60, it was so hard to tell.
His brittle fingers held the knife that slowly cut patterns into her perfectly beautiful face. The face was the hardest, always the hardest. It kept moving. It was always hard to bind the face. He looked down at the mass of cuts that lined her face, her thrashing had marred the art. Oh well. Practice, practice. She was one of what would be many. Oh, so many. He would drug her, but ah, she wouldn't scream then, would she?
He paused to wipe his eyes from the tears that welled up in them. She was so beautiful when she screamed. A siren's song that broke his heart. He loved her so.
She lay, bound, naked on the floor in front of him. He had a table, but he liked them on the floor much better. It felt more personal, somehow. He loved her hair. Her think, luxurious, black hair. He traced the curves of her exquisite neck, right down to her breasts. His hands tingled, and the erection that had been with him since the process began yearned for the tender touch of her soft, perfect white skin. She was crying now, she had given up on words an hour ago. Slid the knife down, cutting out an even line between the skin of her breasts. He leaned down, breathing heavily as he sucked the blood out, and licked it till it was clean as it could be. He cut wide, swooping arches around her breasts with a knife in each hand, and brought it back to the base of her neck. An upside down heart. He smiled, and then cut her nipples out into heart shapes. It was adorable. Over and over she screamed, and he shivered at the sound of it.
It took four hours, deep into the dead of the night. After a while she had stopped screaming, and her eyes looked empty, dead. Her body shivered. She was too exhausted to even cry. She was so beautiful, and he couldn't even believe she was all his. He was so lucky. He looked down at her - at the patterns he had drawn all over her body. They were exquisite. Ah, nothing could compare to the medium of art he used - painters and sculptors all tried to IMITATE life - only fashion designers came close - but even then. They only decorated the outside body. Those decorations could be thrown off in a moment. He admired tattoo artists... but nothing, nothing was quite the same as scar painting.
Last, but not least, he littered her body with glitter, cheap, pink glitter, the complemented her blood quite beautifully. He stood up,
and took a step back, admiring his artwork. She took his breath away. She was an angel. A beautiful, angel. His breathing quickened. He could resist it no longer. He needed her. He needed her, he had to have her.
He stripped, and threw his clothes away on the floor. Hungrily, he climbed on top of her. She had been teasing him all night. Her screams of ecstasy in the pain he gave her had been driving him wild. He could home himself no longer. He clambered onto her, sliding his hands all over her exquisite body, following every one of her curves he now knew so well. Her skin was so soft, so pure, and now it was alive, alive with the blood of life that streamed out all over. She soon got wet, and slippery with the blood he was spreading all over her, but this was a part of it.
Moaning, unable to take it, his hands gripped her hair and he penetrated her, his lips mashing against hers. He let out a small yelp of pleasure, and thrust deeply into her again. Again, and again, and again, taking her, owning her, fucking her as her blood oozed, and oozed, and oozed.
When at last he came, deep inside her, he noticed she was limp. He wondered how long she had been dead for. He left her there, and went to shower.1
When he came back, he had is his best suit on. His painting tux. He had an apron over himself - she was still covered in blood, after all. He picked her up, oh so delicately, and carried her to the gallery.
He was running out of place.
The gallery was full. There were redheads, and brunettes, and blondes. Some eyes were stitched open, a variety of hues filling the air. All of them were hung up on crosses - he liked symbolism. There were girls of ever ethnicity, and the only thing in common the all had - they were all exquisitely stunning. Angels. Well, rotting angels. He found deep symbolism in their rot, just like the human soul rots under the eternal weight of its sins. Of vanity.
His sin was lust. But he wouldn't rot. His angels rotted for him. He was safe. 2
He lifter her up. He nailed her left hand in. He nailed her right hand. The hard part was done. He nailed her feet together, and let the blood drip down. Pools of blood lay all over the floor, and her white skin was even paler. She would rot too. He loved art.
A contest entry
- Seven Deadly Sins by corrupthoughts.
300 points, ended November 5, 5 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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WOW
this was awesome, i cant get over it
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Sorry..
"I like the fact that he did even fully realize she did until he was done with her," -- that part of my comment should be - I like the fact that he didn't even fully realize she was dead until he was done with her... yea. -
Whoooo-eey! Where to begin?? I loved this. Ha! Man, when I said go all out on the violence, sex and swearing, you really took advantage of it, lol. The guy is twisted and you stay in his POV really well, not to mention, his thoughts are whack as is, and keeps for interesting reading (for freaks like us, anyway). I like the fact that he did even fully realize she did until he was done with her, I also really like the idea of this 'gallery', that is unique indeed. But it did leave me wondering how no one picked up on the smell, since that’s how ppl like Jeffery Dahmer were caught..
Anyways, just some minor things to point out and parts I particularly liked;
You have a great desc. of this man, I like the details of his hair and shape of his head... however, right after that I think I found a little typo; "His eyes were focused, and his behind round, brittle glasses." I know what you are trying to say, but can't find the missing word or what needs to be moved lol.
this line "and licked it till it was clean as it could be." after he sucked her blood, perhaps you should clarify by saying 'licked her wound' instead of 'it'.
"and then cut her nipples our into heart shapes." -- That made me shiver and grab my own breasts like I was protecting them... Ha!
"He admired tattoo artists... but nothing, nothing was quite the same as scar painting." ---Interesting indeed, this made me think for some reason.
"...with glitter, cheap, pink glitter, the complemented her blood..." - I think 'the' should be 'that'.
"Well, rotting angels. He found deep symbolism in their rot, just like the human soul rots under the eternal weight of its sins. Of vanity.
His sin was lust. But he wouldn't rot. His angels rotted for him. He was safe" --Beautiful.
You definitely did what was required with this piece and I liked it a lot... Thanks so much for entering and good-luck!
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Thanks!
I'm so glad you liked it, especially as I'm not very experienced in the whole horror genre. I love the whole idea of love and tenderness he has here... thinking about how artists love their work, and this man sees himself as nothing but an artist. The smell. Hmm. I would assumed he's sealed off the room somehow and used an anti-odorant around it. Inside, though, he'd keep the stink... art for ALL the senses.
Ha.. even taste.
I'm glad I got you to react to the story - every writers dream. Tell me if there are any other requests, any other stories you'd like me to write - I had fun with this one.
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To me personally, it sounded as if you were trying too hard to be gruesome and eerie. There was no emotional connection established between the reader and victim, no real suspense, just the usual and predictable "rawr i rape and keel yew." It would have been nice to have some confusion and suspense build up in the beginning before you laid all the sinning, lusting, carving, raping, and murdering on the reader.
The way he carved designs into her body was a nice touch. I did notice the details that went into that, but I think that more details about the designs and carvings would add more to the fact that the sick man really did think he was an artist.
The quality of the writing is excellent of course, I must say. It just sounds very forced to me, like all you had in your head was "gruesome and gory" when you were writing this. Whether or not this is true, I feel as though you should have focused more on the "vanity-lusty" sin thing, than the pure gory-ness of it.
Great quality writing,
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Oh, hey, I'd agree with you. Horror is not really my genre. It's something I'm interested in, something I want to explore, something I want to know more about - so your tips are very helpful, and I'm going to keep coming back to this as a reference any time I try something new with horror, so, um, any other tips?
I meant to write more details, but I've never drawn anything. I kinda lost words to describe something I've never done. I'm glad you like the quality of writing, at least. That's a plus, yay.
Thanks again. -
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While, as I said previously that I wasn't too fond of the 'all gore n guts' aspect, the pure concept of man who fancies himself an artist through the mutilation of female victims--that is an excellent plot. I mean--horror isn't really my thing either, but for a first/second/whatever attempt at horror writing, this was excellent.
If you want to get more into horrific writing, then I suggest reading a collection of horror stories. Rather than focusing on the story itself (because you obviously rock with creative plots), analyze the ways in which the writer builds suspense and the timing of the actual thrills, when they occur. The more you read the material you are trying to write, the more you'll pick up.
I look forward to reading your next horror story.
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