The Artist: Closer Now, and Closer Yet

Matthew Sanders’ eyes fluttered, and so did my stomach. A wild wave of glee washed over me as the large man awoke with quite a start. He gasped. After all, he was drenched in the cold water I had just splashed all over him.
“Wh… What the hell?!” He exclaimed in shock, trying to tug his arms and legs free. Bewilderment and just a slight dash of fear bubbled up within his emotions, shooting past his eyes like rays of sunlight behind clouds. He grunted and repeatedly tugged his limbs toward himself, to no avail. I had tied him spread-eagled and shirtless to the floor of his studio basement, utilizing power drills, large nails, and a fair amount of luck-found rope to secure him.
I laughed openly at his display of confusion, bringing his attention to me. Instantly, alarm and anger inculcated his initial confusion. I twirled a drumstick in hand, one that I had found by the drums. His eyebrows furrowed in distress, and his mouth was open as if to say something. His jaws clicked shut again, before reopening.
“You… I… what the… How did I—WHAT THEFUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!” He finally spat out. I chuckled, and smugness was now something that had metaphorically tattooed itself as a smirk on my lips. In an intrepidly arrogant move, I strode forward and placed one bare foot upon his tattooed sternum, chucking away the drumstick as I did so. His breathing was rapid and panicked, almost like Valary’s in the few moments before her soul left her body. I shifted most of my weight onto the foot on his chest, and watched in glee as he found words to lash out at me with.
“Valary! What do you think you’re doing?! Why am I tied up like this?! I’m going to call the police!” He roared as spasms of panic rippled over his body. His arms jerked toward him as he tried to pull them away from the thick rope, but he grimaced when the rough texture of it scraped his skin and nearly drew blood.
Sanders yelled a string of obscenities, and I had simply stood watching him. His husky voice dominated the atmosphere, though colors of fear had shook his strong tones more often than not. Finally he grew tired of screaming, knowing I wouldn’t do anything to stop him. His voice quieted down to mere grunts and mutters and under-breath curses. When I flipped out my shiny-clean switchblade, his very movement ceased for a second. His voice was a frightened whisper, which elicited chuckles from me.
“Where’s my wife? Where’s... where's Valary?” Matthew asked, his voice a whimper if not anything else. I smiled down at him in pity, and lifted the switchblade to my neck. I dragged it across my throat, with the razor-sharp edge just touching skin in a silent answer. Matthew stared at me in disbelief. Shock crossed his features and sorrow dominated his emotion. “You killed my wife,” He whispered, tears running from his eyes. He repeated the statement over and over again, voice wavering and breaking as sobs seized his body.
“What are you going to do?” He whispered, a sob pushing past his lips. I replied by burning my gaze into his glazed hazel eyes, an almost apologetic smile gracing my messed-up face. He bit his lip, shutting his eyes tight for a moment before meeting my eyes again, only to avert his gaze to a nearby wall.
“Are you going to…” Here he gulped. “Rape me?”
I couldn’t help but laugh—and quite festively too—at this question. It was absurd, but not irrational from his point of view. I shook my head, before moving away to sit cross-legged next to him.
“Then what are you going to do to me?” He asked again; his voice wavered. Teasingly, I let the tip of the blade touch his skin, tracing his tattoos lightly without drawing blood. He winced.
“You are my canvas,” the Master spoke with me. To my ears, the voice that slipped past my lips was doubled; a low, menacing tone escaped from the Master, whilst my own voice was soft and melodious, deep enough just to sound sickly sultry and sexual at times, but still innocently feminine and not boy-like in any way unless I will it to be so. I liked the way our voices sounded together; it was so completing and perfectly harmonic. “And your blood is the paint.”
Matthew’s jaw hung slack. It was obvious now that he was petrified, and the sudden realization of my identity struck him like a train. “You…” He muttered. “You’re the artist?”
“Yes, Matthew,” I smiled at him, and so did the Master. I embraced the feeling of the Master’s and my own being merging to speak as one, as two entities bonded into one; I reveled in it. I felt a slight frown tug at my lip. “I’m afraid your tattoos don’t leave much space for my art,” We said, slightly disappointed. To prove the point, I applied a fair amount of pressure to the blade as it dragged along one prominent line of his Deathbat tattoo. He whimpered, a whispered “no, please,” tumbled off his pierced lips in a near-silent plea.
“VALARY!” Suddenly, Sanders screamed. I assumed he was calling for his wife, because he had proceeded to repeat those three syllables over and over again. Often, he had slipped in “help me” and “Get me out of here”. I laughed, and the Master laughed with me. In the tumultuous silence of Matthew’s screams, the switchblade flew up, allowing me to quickly carve a forte symbol on his left cheek. The shock and sudden pain elicited a wild scream from him. Small spheres of scarlet quickly enlarged and merged to make their trip away from an open gash to the side of his face. A tear slid out from the corner of his left eye. Out of sheer impulse, I made a small, no-longer-than-half-a-centimeter cut an inch under where the tear was. When the small droplet of salty water reached the cut, Matthew bit his lip hard enough to wound, and more tears flew out and encouraged even more salt in the wound.
“That, on your left cheek, is forte. It is because you are loud,” The Master stated. I chuckled a bit, and Matthew screamed obscenities at me. “Maybe I will also add a piano symbol, because for a big man, you are incredibly soft.”
“They’ll find you,” He growled, loathe dripping from his words like capsaicin extract, so lethally thick and suffocating. I raised an eyebrow and let him continue. “There’ll be fingerprints.”
“oh, dear,” I laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a tragedy? Fortunately for me, I don’t have any of those pesky fingerprints,” We continued, holding up one hand to his face. What I said was true; years ago, I had burnt each and every one of my fingers (not sparing the palms of my hands) on the flame I used to incinerate my Mother—the first time the Master took complete control of me.
The Master had suddenly lost his patience. He forced me to stop talking, and I had submissively obeyed without protest. I watched in complete silence as two or three millimeters of the blade disappeared under the skin of Matthew’s side. He had dragged the blade along in twisting patterns, lines of gravity-controlled crimson following in the wake of stainless steel. Matthew yelped, yelled, and twisted away from the blade best he can, but there was no escape. Occasionally the Master would lift the blade, starting a new line that corresponded to the previous. Creeks of tears formed on Matthew’s face as brooks of blood fell from beautiful lines forming on his sides.
Something churned inside me—I wasn’t sure what the Master was thinking. He blinded me, taking my sight to his own advantage as he continued to create art from Matthew’s skin and blood. He always did this; I’d be blind until he was content with his work, and that’d be when he let me see. What I saw usually amazed me enough to keep me coming back for more.
From the sturdy prison that the ethereal Master put me in, Matthew’s cries and screams were still audible. I never liked this part. I never liked being pinned to the back of my own mind, not knowing what the Master was doing to my our victim, not being allowed to see or touch, not being allowed to have a say in his Art. No, I never liked this part at all. It made me feel weak and excluded.
I tried to ignore the rest of my senses as the Master etched his intention onto Matthew’s skin. His voice drifted into my consciousness like cigarette smoke in an empty room. The room was now stained with ochre drips of nicotine sorrow.
I was kept blind for what seemed like an eternity. I could feel the Master’s ardor envelop me, tightening around my mind and nearly suffocating me. A twisted, raspy laugh tumbled from my—no, our—lips, as I felt my—our hands continue to move in what was seemingly a wild pattern. Seconds ticked endlessly and my patience ceased. I nudged at the higher being with my mind, urging a message to him. “Master—”
Be patient, Christabelle, he drawled in a reassuring tone. Zeal and fervor vibrated within his deep tones, creating a burr that differed greatly in contrast to his normal calm self. Another crooked laugh escaped our lips as he returned to split some more tissue and conjure some more scarlet lines. Just a few more strokes, he promised. Just a few more strokes and you’ll see. You’ll see my Art!