Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

They would draw you in and made you feel you were falling down a bottomless well. He opened his mouth, let his canines grow out and bit hard into my palm drawing blood. The pain shot through my body and broke our eye contact. I screamed and took back my hand. I did not havr time to dwell on the pain. I ran to the door and started painting the blue hue around it with my blood. I watched the colour buzz and fade away wherever it came in contact with my blood. I had covered more than half of the door in blood when the bleeding stoped. I looked bacl at Luciano who had been starring at me quietly all this time.

I seriously muttered. "Mosquito?" he said with disbelief, "Don't you dare put a fucking mosquito on my painting, Savvy." I hissed and continued to paint the small dead mosquito on his shoulder. "Maybe your blood is so delicious that the mosquitoes feasted on it, Attorney." I giggled and wrote down my signature, Sage, at the side of the canvas. "Yeah, my blood is royal and rare. They thought it was desert." He shook his head and massage his temple. "Already done, Attorney. Come on, check it."

Blake’s assistant showed him the most appreciated and expensive painting of the event. “This is called the ‘Happy Souls’ by the artist — Jonathan Garcia. He is one of the most talented painters in our art gallery.” The lively vibes of the laughing people in the painting lure Viaan. He smiled a bit before turning to the assistant. “I would like to buy it.” Viaan expressed his interest, still gazing at the beautiful painting. “Sure, sir, I’ll just make—” The assistant couldn’t complete his words for someone interrupted them from behind. “Everything that entices you has the potential to be mine!”

>> The uninterested expression on the painter face infuriates the other, who continues strick the heel on the floor. " Think about it Duke Thomas Eavl , I would be waiting for your answer." The stricken sounds of heels, faded in the environment . The painter took of his thick eye glasses, reveling those pair of sad grey eyes,His messy blonde hair was tied in a bun and white tips. His hand suddenly trace on his beautiful painting of a smiling brown hair female, tears hitting the ground. " I can't, I can't wait any bit longer." The view slowly pass the squat and crying Painter, towards the beautiful view of the blue skies and birds on the air.

The woman’s gaze met his with a combination of fear and defiance, the trembling hand on the knife, the only line separating life from something else entirely. Red trickled freely now. It fell onto her shoes, splashed onto the floor, yet still she painted. Each line, each curve, each shadow carried the weight of intent, of story, of power The crowd leaned in closer. A woman whispered, “She’s… bleeding. Is she okay?” Another muttered, “Look at the detail—how is this even possible?” No one understood. And yet everyone felt it—the tension, the dread, the impossible intimacy of predator and prey as seen in the painting.

Three of his fingernails had been ripped off; the rest were packed with blood and dirt. A gust of wind hurled snow through the front door. When he didn’t stir even from that, she lifted the broom a few inches and pushed the door closed behind him. “Who are you?” She didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t give any, just lay where he’d fallen—skin and muscles and dirt and blood. No, he shouldn’t be painted, she thought then. He was a completed work of art already—a human canvas painted with violence. Some people equated art with beauty. She knew, better than most, that wasn’t always true.

untill I pushed the cloth aside entirely The painting was almost entirely black; a tiny white figure stood in the center all alone, with what looked like oddly shaped figures all over the figure, like they were… companions. Underneath it, my thumb traced the finely carved line; LONELINESS My eyes moved to the other painting. This one was covered in violent red brush strokes that intricately came together to form a beautifully ugly creature. The colors looked angry, like they were each yelling out screams that would be haunting to hear if they could speak out loud

she said to herself still in search of her class everyone seems to be in a hurry so she decided not to ask and got missed up with the crowd, then she bumped into a young lady of her age called Elisa, who was into zoology while Annie was into pharmacy. "hey you! what's your problem can't you see me coming or are you blind? Why is there so much blind people everywhere these days. can't one possibly check is or her eyes before coming out how many time will I get buped up before reaching home today." Elisa said with an angry voice, while talking to herself. "Am so sorry, am new here, I was just trying to locate my class, I am so sorry I was such in a rush that I did not see you coming," Annie sa

I pushed myself off the door frame and took a step toward him. "So, is this what you do to your victims?” I pressed. “You put them under your control and then kill them? Well, Darick, you can shove that stupid blood oath up your ass and go to hell! You are barbaric.” This clearly made him angry. Good. He deserved to feel half of what I was. "You don't know what you're talking about. You know nothing about me," he growled. "I know you are the leader of the Blood Brother's mafia, a gang of vampires, and I now understand why you're called Darick the Bloodthirsty," I replied, pointing to the bite mark on my neck.

I see the way the energy isn’t flowing evenly anymore. And I see the center. That concentrated signature. Not Arachne’s magic. Not stable. It spikes again. Wild. Then it slams down. I feel something close to excitement curl in my stomach. Not joy. Not happiness. Something sharper. “She doesn’t have control over it,” I murmur. “Over the child?” Carter asks. “Over what the child is becoming.” Abomination. The signature flickers like a bad lightbulb. Erratic. Emotional. I imagine the girl inside that house. Helena’s daughter. Unaware. Untrained. A loaded weapon with no safety on.