Bloody Painter 소설 & 이야기

EDWARD'S SILENT DEAL NATHANIEL'S POV. I did my very best to execute my torture without getting my clothes stained. I didn’t want to start answering questions as to how I spilled paint on my body. The phrase, “A painter can’t paint a wall without getting stained.” Was something I totally disagreed from. I could paint a whole building without getting stained so long I took my time. I took the phrase as an experiment executing it on the bloody man that was right in front of me.

The groom mounting the bride on a throne of corpses. My hand moved faster than my mind. I dipped the brush deeper, harder, tearing at the canvas like I was cutting flesh. I mixed the reds and blacks until they bled together, thick and viscous. The eyes I painted stared back, wide and lifeless. The flowers were rotting. The sky dripped gore. A massacre. And I smiled. They wanted a masterpiece? I’d give them one they’d never forget.

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 fought against the darkness that threatened to envelop me, desperate to find solace in the haven of my room. But my body had other plans. A violent convulsion seized me, and a primal scream erupted from my lips. With a rush of horror, I realized that I was vomiting blood. Thick, crimson liquid cascaded from my mouth, staining the floor with its grotesque presence. Tears mingled with the blood as I crumpled to the ground, my strength sapped by the sheer intensity of the pain. My beloved paintings lay forgotten, scattered haphazardly around me, as if mimicking the chaos that now consumed my body. I gasped for air, the taste of iron overwhelming my senses.

Jon mumbled. "And that undisclosed buyer is me," said Dante smiling widely, his sharp teeth glistening in the dim room. "Let's see if you can guess who painted the next one." Dante walked eagerly to the next painting, his cane tapping on the wooden floor like a one-legged giant insect. He likewise turned on the pin lights and the painting exploded in colors of bright red and burnt sienna. "This painting is something I really like. Tell me what you think?" The second painting showed a half-naked man with eyes opened wide as if in a crazed state. In his hand was something that looked like a severed human arm while blood was seen dripping from his mouth. He appeared to be in a desert and faint

Anthony clenched his fists and said, "No. It's just paint. Let's talk about it later. I'm going back to my room." Then, he directly left the triplets. The triplets looked at Anthony's back, confused. Why were their Papa's hands stained with paint? Was he painting just like them? Anthony turned on the shower, letting the water wash over his body. The clothes he took off were thrown on the floor next to the shower. The water under his feet instantly turned into a pool of bloody water. Anthony was shocked, and he stared at the bloody water, appearing stiff. It was all blood from Anne's body.

But… the vampire I dreamed about was not real! “Second, the Dervy. They are the kinds of vampires that are evil. They possessed dark magic and it was very dangerous. They are our enemy. They are the second strongest of the entire vampire clan. The color of their eyes is black which I know is scary to look at because it looks like the eyes of a demon. And don't come near one of them because they will kill you," This is what Knox and I fought yesterday they almost killed me. I stood up in shock when I saw it because of its appearance.

“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.

To a Tactician, it was a topographic map of intent. The brushstrokes were aggressive. Upward slashes. Violence in the wrist movement. The painter hadn't just marked the territory; they had struck it. The white pigment was thick, industrial-grade polymer—likely scavenged from the Dregs' shipyards where the hulls of dead tankers rotted in the acid rain. And it was fresh. The smell hit the back of my throat—sharp, chemical acetone. It cut through the prevailing stench of mold and urine, stinging my sinuses.

The sound of running water in the bathroom suddenly stopped. I sat calmly on the living room sofa, watching as the girl stepped out of the bathroom without a stitch of clothing on. Her skin was fair, and on the right side of her upper part was a vivid red rose. It was unmistakably Simon Jones’ work. He was a painter, one who especially enjoyed using the bodies of young women as his canvas, seeking inspiration through them. A few seconds later, Simon also emerged from the bathroom.