Blood On Canvas の小説・ストーリー

Kai I’m sitting in my studio with a blank canvas in front of me, the kind I used to fill without even thinking. Back when my hands knew what to do before my brain caught up, back when drawing was as natural as breathing. Now it’s sitting here, white and empty, like it’s mocking me for even trying. I press the charcoal to the surface anyway, try to make a line, any line at all. But my hand won’t move the way it used to and the stroke comes out shaky and uncertain, nothing like what I’m seeing in my head.

Clara’s POV The art room smelled of turpentine and old wood, a blend that usually calmed me, wrapping me in a familiar embrace. But not today. Today, it only heightened the bitterness choking me, clouding the air as I fought to push my emotions onto the canvas. My brush trembled in my grip as I dragged thick black strokes across the canvas, each one heavier than the last, blurring into a chaotic mess that mirrored the storm inside me. My chest felt tight, my throat raw, as the frustration and anger threatened to overflow.

“So you can either be the one posing on the couch, behind the canvas or be the one whose blood I will use in replacement for paints.” I suppressed the sob that wanted an outlet. “You... you've killed my sister, haven't you?” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks the moment I said the last words. His statement told me the obvious. I heard he does not only drink the blood of his victims, he goes as far as using the blood to paint on his canvas victoriously.

Tuck it away with the others. That evening, I worked late in the studio. Lost in color and canvas. The painting takes shape under my hands. A woman at a window. Looking out at a city, her face turned away, hair catching light. I don't realize I've cut my hand until I see blood on the canvas, a red streak across the woman's silhouette. "Damn it." I grab a towel. Press it against the gash on my palm. Glass from a broken palette knife I'd been using, careless in my focus.

The exquisite mix of pain and pleasure making me ache deep within. "You're a perfect canvas to paint a masterpiece on," he says, sounding almost absent or far away. My brow furrows. "What do you mean?" Blaine tears his eyes from my body and meets my gaze, and the look in them makes me shudder. It's dark and sadistic as he squeezes my left nipple even harder, making me yelp in surprise. "Cutting is an art form." His other hand digs into my right hip as he yanks me forward so I can feel the cold metal of the blade in his belt pressing into my skin. "Blood is my paint and skin is my canvas, Azira. And I've never seen a more beautiful canvas."

But I soon got my answer when I glanced at the canvas. "Av..." I called out in surprise. "Is it beautiful?" "It is.... the most beautiful and extraordinary I have ever seen," I said getting lost on the painting. He had drawn a naked girl facing to the left due to which it had shown only one half of her body. She had hands wrapped around her stomach, her hair seem to swing on the air and the expression on her face seem like she was in great pain. Then I noticed the floor was all covered with blood.

As usual, his eyes swept over the room with that bored, predatory glint — until they landed on the canvas. He let out a low whistle. “Oh. You finished it,” he drawled. “Yeah,” I replied, not looking at him. “Lucian finally brought me the right paint.” At that, Caisen snorted — a sharp, humorless sound. “Paint?” he said, smirking. “That’s a polite word for what it really is.” My brush froze mid-clean. Slowly, I looked up at him. “What…?” Caisen tilted his head, his grin widening, sharp and lazy. “You really didn’t know? That’s Diana’s blood you’re splashing around up there, I extracted it with my own hands.”

"It is nothing big, honest. i just need one, maybe two, vials of your blood." "What?" Arisa yelled shocked. I couldn't contain my anger. I involuntarily phased into my demon form, albeit just the first stage. "You want me to bargain with my blood?! You know that is the one thing, other than Liz, that I can't give!" "No, not your blood, HER blood." Veronica pointed over to Arisa who looked pale. "What?" I asked shocked. Arron was also rather confused as he looked on and Liz was behind me, clutching the fabric of my pants into her little hands.

The air felt thick as they stepped inside. The painting leaned against the wall, wrapped carefully just as it always had been. Isabella approached it slowly. Her hands shook as she peeled back the cloth. Nothing looked different. “This is it,” she said. “Just paint and canvas.” Alexander handed her a small blade. “Cut your finger.” Her heart slammed. “Now.” She did it. A single drop of blood fell onto the lower corner of the painting. The canvas shimmered. Hidden lines surfaced, glowing faintly before settling into clarity. Coordinates. Names. Transactions. Proof.

Shades of red, brown and black diademed the canvas, yet not getting mixed together, as if they harboured misogyny. The form became more vivid as the lifeless colours brought life in the painting. And then, like a gentle stroke of a fine paintbrush on the canvas, an obnoxiously metallic smell of blood wafted in my nostrils. Blood! The colours swirled and turned into something more vivid. I could see the form clearly now. I scrunched up my nose as the smell of fresh blood became more intense, almost unbearable. I walked to the figure through the blur and hollow, my instinct telling me to stop.