The Color Of The Canvas

Episode 1

As with each restless day, I find myself returning to this spot once more. While many prefer strolling through vast meadows, indulging in books, or frequenting the cinema, my preferences are somewhat different and peculiar – this is what soothes me when that wave of unease overtakes me.

“Bleer, how about we play a game?” I suggested, gripping my favorite knife – and I own quite a collection. Its handle gleams with a golden sheen and is set with delicate glass inserts that lend it an air of sophistication. But more than that, its razor-sharp edge can slice through the thinnest of papers. It was a birthday gift from my father some time ago; he always gives the finest presents.

Today, I will embark on creating a new masterpiece. I'll paint once more for my beloved Stefy; she always appreciates my works, especially knowing that the pigment is infused with blood. Initially, my canvases were Bleer's flesh, but I ran out of canvas as his body became devoid of space. So Stefy proposed a different use for his distasteful existence – he makes for an excellent source of paint.

Bleer's gaze meets mine as it always does – a mix of fear, agony, frustration, fury, longing, or perhaps all these emotions combined. Yet his look could not stir a shred of pity within me. I pulled out my cellphone, plugged in my earphones – unlike my father who uses music to curb his impulses, I use it to fuel my motivation. As Megadeth starts to play, I stride towards Bleer.

“When will you let me die? Please, I don't want to live anymore,” he pleaded, gaze downturned, incapable of looking me in the eye. His vision has dimmed, but it's clear the day for his peaceful demise hasn't come. I still yearn to watch him suffer a while longer. Yet, to be honest, his existence is beginning to irk and bore me in some way.

In the beginning, it was a vendetta for all he did in my youth – estranging me from my parents, causing me harm. But in time, it evolved into something rather amusing; hearing his cries, his pleas became the epitome of artistic expression. But lately, he ceased to entertain me; his cries and screams are no more. It no longer brings me joy.

Approaching him, I seized his arm and plunged the knife into his flesh, twisting it in circular motions until I carved out a small piece of meat. The gory hole bled profusely. His blood isn't as vividly red anymore, which makes me wonder if he needs vitamins. To no one's concern, the quality of my paintings has waned, according to my art teacher – “You must find a higher quality pigment,” he advised. I just smiled and assured him I would, although my cold disposition has not yet allowed me to seek out Bleer’s replacement.

Perhaps the quality faded because he no longer screams; his body, peppered with those holes, might have grown accustomed to the pain. It's turned into a torment, really. I crave excitement, but he fails to deliver it as he once did. I miss that brilliance he used to exude, the mesmerizing display of his screams. Now, I see only a wretched being yearning for death that eludes him.

The fun had waned; no longer did it bring me the surge of pleasure to see him bleed. I worked on the painting but felt no satisfaction. Ultimately, I destroyed it, for it lacked the essence it held when I first began painting for her – the magic was gone; the red of his blood was not what I longed for. "Stefy will not be pleased with this artwork," I thought, disheartened. Stefy deserves a piece of quality, not this trash.

"Your blood doesn't appeal to me anymore; it's lost the enchanting touch it once brought to my works. What am I to do with you? I need you to regain that magic..." I sighed.

Taking up a butcher's knife, I drew closer to him. I didn't intend to dismember him; I simply cut the chain that bound him, stepped back, and squatted down to whisper in his ear, “If you make it out of here alive, I won't torture you again,” I told him before walking away.