Blood On Canvas Novels & Stories

If you looked closely, you could see the faint outlines of the mansion’s floor plan woven into the briars. Blood: A violent, crimson abstract that captured the night of the gala and the biological war of the Trust. It was thick, textured, and moved like a living thing under the gallery lights. Sky: An open-concept masterpiece of blues, golds, and whites. It was the New Sanctuary. It was the moment Ethan called Zander “Dad.” It was the feeling of oxygen finally reaching lungs that had been drowning for years. “It’s haunting,” a critic whispered, not realizing I was standing behind him. “It’s as if she didn’t just paint it—she bled it.”

Dominic looked at Gage in disbelief. “I only took the heads and two bags of blood. That Haverley snores like a fucking broken tractor. I walked right into his room, lifted the covers and placed the pig’s head between his legs and soaked the area with the pig’s blood. Halden was still awake so I left the pig’s head in his bed and sprayed the blood everywhere over his bed while he was in the shower,” Gage said. The coffee machine beeped and Dominic shook his head. “That sends a message all right.”

inherent in my brushstrokes and how our father’s passing was manifesting as a Gothic nihilism in my work. Charles is saving me from that room. He’s saving me from the ghosts on the canvas. I head to my room for a shower, the steam helping to loosen the knot in my shoulders. When I return to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, my heart stops. Cindy is standing by the wall, a brush gripped in her hand like a weapon. She’s dipped it directly into the jar of fresh black oil paint, and a thick, jagged smear now bifurcates the center of my painting.

I slip silently into the adjacent washing chamber, bolting the heavy wooden door behind me. Standing in front of the bronze mirror, I pull my hospital gown down to my elbows, exposing my upper back. When I unwrap the blood-soaked gauze, a gasp of pure horror catches in my throat. The skin across my right shoulder is black, blue, and painted in dried, crimson blood where the rogue's iron weapon struck me.

I grabbed the huge canvas and my paints without bothering to tie my hair up. Colors collided on the canvas, raw and wild. Rage mixed with sorrow, bleeding into every stroke—red for the fury in the background, black for the emptiness, lines in the red, white for the hollow ache blending with the blue, brown for the weight of it all. But...Blue surged, sharp and piercing, until his image actually emerged. Not the man himself, but his eyes. Those cruel, calculating blue eyes that knew exactly how to lie. The image spoke...as if it was actually him on the other side—laughing at me, cruelly.

I grabbed the huge canvas and my paints without bothering to tie my hair up. Colors collided on the canvas, raw and wild. Rage mixed with sorrow, bleeding into every stroke—red for the fury in the background, black for the emptiness, lines in the red, white for the hollow ache blending with the blue, brown for the weight of it all. But...Blue surged, sharp and piercing, until his image actually emerged. Not the man himself, but his eyes. Those cruel, calculating blue eyes that knew exactly how to lie. The image spoke...as if it was actually him on the other side—laughing at me, cruelly.

She looks— Confused "I don't understand" I can't help the small laugh that leaves my lips "What's there not to understand? He's a psychotic maniac that likes painting with blood. That's fucking it" "I just—" She looks more lost now, because she can't put it together, or she does, but it's not making sense. "He uses animal blood. It's the only way to prevent him from not cutting himself and using his skin as an actual canvas" I cut in "He won't use other colors, just blood"

Cheeks wet from the tears a soft sob escaping from her lips only to be unheard even by the guy who is in the same room or a basement she assumed as there was no window around. One after the other the drop of blood dripped on the bucket as the boy with the grey eyes kept on painting over the canvas. The canvas is painted with deep red as the same replica of the women tied on the chair. The only colour that was upon it was red of different shades with its background in black colour. “Naa~naa~na~na~na~Naaa~Naaa~Na~” the smile turns into a smirk as he takes a deep breathtaking scent of blood. Making him cover his mouth with the back of his hand still holding the brush.

"Rose. I didn't want you to see the process yet. I wanted the piece to be finished first." I couldn't move. My feet were rooted to the floor. The smell, the cloying, sweet, iron scent of fresh blood hit me like a physical wall. I looked at the canvas. The blood wasn't a mess, it was being directed. It was a silhouette. A portrait.

"I am listening." "She has a concussion and that's why she bled through her nose. The side of her back was cut open by a sharp object, maybe wood but she's going to be fine. Although she lost...she lost a lot of blood, we'll keep looking for any sign that'll jeopardise her health." "And I pay you to keep looking," I replied, my eyes on her little form. The man nodded. I stood at the edge of the bed, my hands fisted at my sides.