Blood On Canvas Novels & Stories

A canvas inviting projection, begging to be filled with someone else's interpretation. "He won't be giving me a mask." I bit my thumb. Pain sharp. Familiar. Almost welcome. Blood welled - darker than it should be, threaded with violet. The shade of something changed too deeply to ever be purely human again. I let it fall. The blood didn't smear. It was absorbed.

WARNING SIGNS: LANGUAGE THAT IS UNAMBIGUOUS CURSING VIOLENCE, GUN VIOLENCE SELF-INFLICTED HARM BLOOD, DECEASE, and GORE LUCA POV No more tears streamed down his face as he sank to the ground. That's when I saw the blood splattered on the blue painting that Valentina liked. Fucking hell, it's ruined now. I remember it was quite expensive too. I climbed the marble staircase, with several guards trailing me.

I blinked and smiled at her, “sure, I'd love to." She led me down a narrow hallway toward a dimly lit room. The moment I stepped in, the lights flickered on and I froze. Every inch of the walls was covered in pictures of me. Photos of me smiling, sleeping, crying, standing in front of the window and walking to work. But one image towered above them all. A canvas in the center of the room, it was much larger than the other canvases. I was covered in blood, bruised and blood seeping out of my nostrils. My eyes were swollen from crying and it looked like it was taken at the exact moment I realized Marcus was dead.

I could feel him watching me retreat but I had to get a hold of myself. I went to my favourite room in the fortress, I called it the “Afliction gallery” and nestled the painting of Stefan in a corner amongst the many others. Then my eyes drifted to the one covered with a blue silk fabric. I lifted the fabric to expose a part of the canvas before letting the fabric fall over it again. The stabbing pain in my stomach intensified and traveled to my chest. I coughed into my palm only to see my blood stain it. What was happening?

Everything about him is precise, controlled, perfect. Something’s wrong. I crouch down, my fingers brushing the fabric, finding it stiff in places. When I lift it, straightening on my feet, sunlight catches on a clean slice through the shoulder. But it’s the blood that makes my breath catch—dark brown stains spread across the white cotton like a Rorschach test of violence. I’ve never seen him bleed before…

Hilda touched my face before walking off. Cassius came in afterward bearing several flowers. "I'm sorry for your loss, Elena." His deep baritone reverberated in the room. "Is she really gone, Cass? That doesn't even seem possible." I shook my head. "It is fine, don't stress yourself thinking. I just want you to feed and return back to sleep even though your room now smells like a farm they rear pigs." Cass shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a bag of blood before muttering. "It is O positive, your favorite."

Mom said. Mom crouched on the floor, sorting through the items and choosing between the machete and the saw. She picked up the rusted machete and gestured toward Grayson's shin. "Look at this knife; it's so rusty. It's too dull for the ribs, and it won't cut a throat cleanly either. Still, it's the best I have. My dear, I'm sorry to put you through this. You'll just have to endure it." Grayson's face was extremely pale. He struggled violently, attempting to break his bonds. But no matter how he moved, the sinew rope held him fast.

“Yes, mater. I will serve ye until my last breath.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I pulled my thoughts away from Jones’ past. I only knew this because I’d gone through the history books kept in the cellar, stumbling upon a journal from the time of Grace Bloodsworth. Her tone had sounded regretful as I brushed my hand over the dark red-ink, my eyes eating up the sorrowful words. I knew without a doubt that she had use her own blood to write it.

the foundation’s assets through a series of offshore counters. Toby was in a sling, his arm set by a local doctor who didn’t ask questions. He sat on the deck, his eyes fixed on the water, his rifle across his lap. He was no longer just the protector. He was a man who knew that the war wasn’t over. It had just changed its frequency. I sat at my drafting table, the silver music box sitting in the centre. I didn’t wind it. I didn’t look at the tooth. I picked up a piece of charcoal and a fresh sheet of vellum. I didn’t draw a house. I drew a network.