Blood On Canvas の小説・ストーリー

With a swift and graceful motion, he removed the silk cloth that hid the canvas. A collective gasp echoed through the room, followed by an awed silence. Before them was not just a painting, but a living, breathing Abigail, captured within the canvas boundaries. The colors, the play of light and shadow, the softness of her smile, the intense look in her eyes—it was all so lifelike, so vibrant, it seemed like she might step out of the frame any moment.

Who did nothing but believe I was confused My legs proposing to motion But he held me tight This time, I didn’t fight He didn’t need to speak I understood his plight In that cold dark night He still wouldn’t let me be I sat beside him Amidst the hubbub As he gasped for breath He touched my face Searching with the fingers He got to my neck And took me unawares Strangling with all his strength I was terrified Gasping for breath And trying to wrestle him I bit his hand very hard But he wouldn’t let me be My breath was feint My strength was fading My hands searched the ground I found a sharp object Which I thrusted towards his heart Puncturing his movement He fell slowly Releasing his grip from

My vision flickered and spots of black clouded my sight, but I did not know why. It could not be grief, could it? That would be too humiliating. 'Lana Branch, you really misjudged him, didn't you?'

It’s one of my talents that I’ve kept hidden from everyone, including Vesper. I draw the heavy drapes shut before the sun turns Baron into a piece of extra crispy vampire bacon, and go to my room. There’s a blood bag on my clean pillow, which means no one noticed that I was gone. If Simone was going to choose a time to beat up Baron and escape, the Festival of Creation was the perfect opportunity for it. I tear the blood bag open and sniff it. At least it’s not diseased blood this time, but the human they got it from definitely doesn’t have a great diet. I can’t go another day without eating though, so I swallow my own revulsion and quickly empty the bag.

But his eyes were drawn immediately to the room's center, where the large canvas rested on an easel covered by a plain white cloth. Jonah walked to it, his back to Clarkson. He drew a deep, shaky breath, his shoulders lifting and falling. And then, going slowly and deliberately, he unwrapped the cloth. Robert Clarkson's breath was frozen in his throat. It was a whirlpool. A colour storm and emotion so heavy it was a punch. The sea was a nightmare of bubbling Prussian blue and viridian, slashed and gouged with a knife in paint into ridges more mountainous in their fragmentation than wavelike. The sky was a bruised, suffocating dome, heavy with unshed rain and despair.

What is she doing! When he saw it, his blood went cold. The canvas started to bulge in the middle, the fragile outlines of the painting beginning to distort. "Non!" Pablo screamed, frozen in horror as he watched the priceless Da Vinci stretching. The woman was pushing her knee into the center of the canvas from behind! "Non!" Pablo wheeled and aimed his gun at her but instantly realized it was an empty threat. The canvas was only fabric, but it was utterly impenetrable - a seven-million-dollar piece of body armor.

I touched it again in different places, and it still felt like a regular painting. “Are you kidding me?” Frustratedly, I hit the painting with my fists and scraped my knuckles from the corner. Some of my blood splashed on the painting. I grabbed a cloth to clean it when I noticed it had disappeared. My blood was nowhere to be seen. I looked down at the cut on my hand and back at the painting. “Blood Magic,” I whispered as I touched the painting with my bloody hand. “Come on, grimoire. Come to me.”

Sorry but I need to live. ...... Blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood So much blood. ......

Looked at the card again. At my canvas. A nude painting of me?!

On the third day, the dam broke. It started with a single slash of black paint across a pristine white canvas. It was an act of violence, a scream without sound. Then another, and another. He wasn't painting a picture; he was exorcising a demon. He used his hands, knives, rags, anything he could find. The colors were murky, violent: deep burgundy like old blood, sickly yellow like a bruise, charcoal black like a void.