The Artist: Closer Now, and Closer Yet

The steady ticking of a wall-clock invaded my mind. It was 1.00AM, and the two house hosts were well past asleep, thanks to the Nyquil I slipped in their tea when they weren’t looking. Foolishly of me, I had “gone to bed” before them. I didn’t know where they slept, but I assumed both were in the Master bedroom. They had offered me spare clothing, but I had denied. Don’t you know the Po can track me down with that?
My eyes were focused on the ceilings. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but in the dim light, different shades of grey and black swirled around in ever-fading-and-reappearing splotches littering my vision. For a few hours of serenity, I was on the surface. Just for this little window of time, the Master rested. Valary’s job was done, of course, and she was instantly stowed away somewhere in the battered basement of my mind with many others.
Matthew Sanders’ loud snores penetrated the thick wall that separated the Master bedroom and the Spare which I lay in. Clumps of amusement and confusion spun around in the dark confines of my mind, wheeling into threads of entertained complacency that sewed a smile onto my face. I wondered how his wife could sleep with that obnoxious snoring around. My question was answered when footsteps made themselves audible from the other room, accompanied by under-breath curses and mutters of “damn it, Matthew… snore like a God-damned bulldozer.” I heard Valary Sanders make her way down to the living room, where I assumed she slept on the sofa.
Nine-hundred and thirty-five seconds later, I decided that it was about time I did what I went there to do. Slowly climbing down, I opened the door quietly and padded down the hallway and staircase to their kitchen. The light was out and I was glad that said was so. The Sanders’ silverware and cutlery impressed me. I decided that the steak knives and drama would come later. For now, The Master whispered in my mind. We rid ourselves of obstacles.
Smiling in pleased anticipation, I ran my tongue over dry lips. Exiting the dim kitchen, I crept into the living room. To my chagrin, Valary was awake. She was bent over the coffee table with a mug of steaming something in hand. I could not see her expression, for her back was to me, and I didn’t bother caring. My callused fingers slipped between sock and skin, finding cold steel and slipping it out. Firmly grasped, my index finger poised itself over the button. One step, two steps. Left, right, left, right. Silently, I crept up behind the soft black-and-red sofa. Valary was tall enough that I could easily access her neck, even in her hunched position.
The air tightened around me as I crept closer and closer to the unsuspecting blond. The Master let me have my control, but his intentions underlined everything. Every breath of air that enters and exits my corrupted lungs, every step my scrawny legs take me, every time my eyelids crashed together and separated again in a split second, he was there. He watched me like a coach watched his team. He surrounded me, controlled me, I breathed him in and I reveled in his power. He was a river, and I was the fish living in it. He took the spot in my mind and heart that belonged only to religion. He took it by force but I never struggled. He is my God, and He always will be. I belong to Him, and Him alone.
By then I was right behind her. My mind was frantic; the shelves that held my memories were disheveled. Chaos bounced off the insides of my skull. Despite it, I felt at peace.
I felt at peace as the blade flipped out from its hiding place silently. Serenity washed over my rapid heartbeats as cold steel met the warm, smooth skin that closed itself around her windpipe. Clarity came to me in a satisfying wave as my beloved switchblade painted a chasm on her throat in slow-motion, the edges of it leaking a luscious scarlet rivulet. My other hand covered her mouth, muffling what little noise she made. Even when I was behind her with my eyes closed, I could picture the scene all-too-perfectly. Her body convulsed with panic and I felt her hands scrabbling at me; her long, polished nails scraped my neck and scalp. Sanders’ chest rose and fall rapidly, her legs kicking out in all directions. I have never been so grateful my pre-prey didn’t kick a coffee table with things on it. As I slowly breathed out, I brought the blade back into my vision, sharpened stainless steel dripping with the elixir of her life… and death. Closing the distance between the blade and myself, I stuck my tongue out and dragged the flat of the blade across it.
The scent of iron entered my senses, tickling my olfactory glands with a sinful aroma. I shuddered; I could feel my pupils dilating as a tangy, flavorful layer of red ecstasy coated my tongue. I rolled my eyes up in content, a satisfied hum escaping my throat. Another set of polished nails scraped at my temple, drawing just the slightest bit of my own blood. I grimaced, knowing that it would become evidence if I left it at that.
“Great,” I growled quietly near her ear, in pure disgust and loathe. I felt her flinch. “Now I’ll have to hack your fingers off too. Good-for-nothing lucky bitch, you’d be dead by then.”
I felt a warm wetness fall on my hand; she was crying. Her movements became feeble, the frantic kicking of her legs died down, her arms flopped weakly by her sides. Soon enough, the frenetic rise and fall of her chest slowed to decrepit, pained gasps, and later yet, ceased altogether.
Her heartbeats thudded like drums, had the drummer been jacked on Red bull and ecstasy. With each thump, a slight surge of the warm red liquid pushed the wet lines farther. The beats slowed down, and a last little wave of blood made its way past the others before her heart gave up. I smiled contentedly.
Closer now, and closer yet, The Master breezed into my mind. He always said the same phrase after I successfully stopped another heart—summoned another creek of scarlet to please his greedy heart. I smiled wider, nodding in response to him. “yeah,” I muttered. Now, just get rid of those horrid fingernails. They contain your biological identity, and we don’t want that, do we, darling? “No, Master,” I whispered under my breath. “We don’t.”
Good girl.
Matthew Sanders’ thunderous snores were still audible from upstairs, and I chuckled as I walked toward the kitchen and grabbed a glimmering silver butcher knife. Seizing a chopping block with me, I hummed softly as I made my way back into the living room.
Valary’s body lay limp in a sitting position, scarlet staining her bleach-blond hair, white pajama shirt, and tanned, tattooed skin. Her eyes were open and so was her mouth, a look of utter trepidation tainting her admittedly beautiful features. I kneeled in front of her, moving her hand so that her fingertips were rested one-next-to-the-other upon the light browns of the chopping block. In one swift move, the edge of the butcher knife came down on the first book of her three longer fingers. The finger segments tumbled down to the (thankfully) tile floor, only a hint of blood following them. I hacked off her thumb and then repeated the action with her other hand, leaving awkward stumps as her fingers.
I had placed her fingers in a clear zip-lock baggie, later to be incinerated with other incriminating evidence. Fishing out a bottle of stolen Chloroform, my eye landed on a tattered rag lying by the sink. Chuckling, I picked it up and placed just enough of the magical liquid on it. I had to save, after all. I made my way back upstairs. I grinned, knowing Matthew Sanders had just slept through his wife’s murder. If only he knew what I had done to her. and what I will do to him.