Piece of Art
I like to kill.
Slow as the grandfather clock in a lonely red carpeted hallway, with an overbearing chandelier swaying to the chimes of nothingness.
I’ve replayed it a hundred times in my head. The sequences and the clean cuts. I am a beast of precision, of no loose ends.
With cold blades and an even colder heart, and anxiety that compares to unwrapping of presents on a Christmas morning. I can see my eyes gleam and glisten on the silver of my knives.
Endless possibilities await. Of palms against each other, of cells living and not so. Death is osmosis. Life, not so much.
Romancing my soul, shudder and then neutralise. I’m learning to contain these feelings, label them, make them the finest in my trade.
The process. Aah. The doing. Takes a lot of guts. Yours and his. Only, his literally.
Work on your creation, with a smile. Maybe a hum too. Of your favourite song.
He was to die. Mortals called him Art, short for Arthur. Even though, there was nothing artistic about his prowls.
All he was now, was my piece of Art.