The Light in Her Eye

She sat slumped over in an old wooden chair, unbound but unmoving, held in a dark and dirty basement. The door slowly opened, and a tall man slid his head into the room, and eyed the girl, she didn't squirm under his gaze anymore. He sauntered over to her and frowned.
Her beautiful eye was yellowing, that had started soon after he dad stopped that pitiful whimpering noise. He knew that he had to finish soon, or the eye would be too discolored to continue (that had happened to a few of his models). He reverently picked up his fathers paintbrush, and resumed creating the huge painting of her right eye.
He had cut out her left eye several days earlier, it wasn't perfect like this one, it didn't match. Oh how carefully he had cut the eyelid and surrounding tissue, to better expose this perfect orb. Her eye was green, like her brothers. To the average person it looked beautiful with all the skin in tacked, but now it was beautiful to him. With her eye just sitting in a carved out hole in her face. There was this vacant expression on her face, no longer one of horror.

He glanced at her empty husk, and quickly looked away. She seemed to be staring at him with an accusing hurt expression, like it was his fault that she had wonderful eyes that must be panted. Her one remaining eye seemed to ask him “Why? Why have you done this to me? Why?” His left eye twitched and he whimpered, she looked just like his mother when he had woken up from the car crash and his father hadn't.
“STOP IT!” He screamed, and threw the paintbrush at her; it bounced off her cold forehead. He took out the knife he kept in his pocket, and slashed down her jaw, leaving a long strip of skin ganging. He brought his arm back up, tearing her cheek grotesquely, and yelling “STOP IT!” over and over again. He went to slash that still accusing eye, but stopped short. The painting was almost finished, he would cut her more after.
He retrieved the paintbrush, mumbling his apologies for throwing it at that filthy slut. He resumed painting and the colors flowed through him, as of the paintbrush where an extension of him. Some time later, he set down the paintbrush and smiled. It was finished, his last masterpiece created in freedom.

He knew that the police would soon discover the connection between the mutilated bodies and his beautiful paintings of what seemed to be eyes on red cloth, or something that looks like skin that won’t bleed anymore.
There came a knock on the front door, and a call from out side “__PD, we’re answering a call about some yelling coming from this premises. Is everything all right?”
He sat in front of the girl and waited. Their came the call again “okay we’re coming in” and he heard his door break apart and tentative foot steps enter the house. He smiled all the wider and started laughing hysterically. The police officer heard the laughter coming from the basement and made his way over to find the door slightly ajar. The officer pushed the door wider open and was met by an old man sitting in front of the body of the girl they where looking for. The young and shaken police officer quietly pulled his gun and radioed in some backup, but he was heard, the man abruptly stopped laughing and turned to face the officer with an impossibly calm face.
“Why do come in.” he said in a pleasant voice, his face still emotionless, “We where just finishing up, but I guess you can come and sit down. I just finished, do you like it?” he asked motioning towards the unnoticed painting. The office shuffled his feet but did not move. The man showed facial emotion for the first time, he frowned. More police officers came in then, yelling that he had the right to remain silent, but the man didn't look from the young officer, his gaze unchanging. This ignorant boy didn't like his painting.