Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

She shivered as he called her what he always used to call her. “I am not going to kill you, but you see, I can kill for you. And I won’t stop, until you come home with me. So,” He wiped his face and his hands were bloodied now, his face resembled a devil’s face. He rubbed the blood in his hands and wiped them off on hers. She tried to retract her hands, but he held them tightly, painting them red. He was acting like a sadist, a maniac and her eyes were shedding so many tears she had no idea she owned this many. “If you don’t want me to paint your entire body with blood, let’s go home.”

This painting held so many memories that I didn't know how I moved from my seat or how I stood before the painting caressing it. “It's the original work of the not so famous artist, and mafia heir, may his soul rest in peace, Devon,” someone explained behind me, I didn't care to turn… I didn't want to, knowing that the fallen house of Devon was entirely my fault. I had played along with them, then at the last minute I struck, erasing the only mafia family that accepted me, except the Xavier's — it was my duty. I had to. My hands trembled as I felt the beautiful and smooth texture of the painting. I stared at the black and white painting; a little girl staring into a dark tunnel while holding

I took the raw, chaotic, creative power of the Universe the power of the Artist, the Writer, the Lover and I injected it into the stream of sorrow. I turned the Archive into a Gallery. I took the grief of the dying sun and painted it with the hope of a new nebula. I took the rage of the soldier and gave it the context of peace. I took the fear of the child and gave it a nightlight. < CRITICAL SYSTEM UPDATE. > The red light of the Core faltered. The screaming faces stopped. They looked around, confused, as the blue light of the Origin-Code washed over them, turning their agony into art.

Besides, I think they're too impatient to do things calmly. "What do you know about this wine called 'Blood of the Wise'?" Judging Orion's expression, there's no doubt, he's willing to tell him everything he wants to know. Ah. The scent of victory.

So I grabbed my teddy bear and walked down the stairs. When I came into the kitchen, I didn't saw my daddy and my mommy standing there, arguing and fighting. I just saw my mommy laying on the floor in a puddle of blood. The red liquid was coming out of her belly and flooded around her. Her eyes were wide open and her brown hair had become red of her blood. I whispered her name and grabbed her hand as I knelt next to her. The tears were falling down my cheeks like a waterfall. Her blood was now on my white pajamas. My hands were painted with her blood as I tried to shake her awake.

died. "Get the lady a glass of water, Peter. She looks thirsty" He said. I finally glanced at the Man. He was— beautiful, with perfectly gelled hair and beautiful grey eyes. He looked everything a man was supposed to be. A beautiful criminal. TBC

The curtains were half open, allowing the newly risen moonlight to seep in faintly and cast indistinct shadows across his face. Several photographs were scattered on the desk. They were taken from various angles: faces, chests, hands, wounds and crude tattoos belonging to people who were no longer alive. The bodies of the rogues who attacked Eirene were stiff, their eyes staring blankly. Blood had dried on the asphalt, mingling with dust and last night’s rain. Fabrizio stood with both hands braced against the edge of the desk. His gaze was sharp and cold as he scanned every detail, trying to pierce the layers of dead flesh to see the truth beneath.

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

I grabbed the handle and tried to open it, but it seemed locked. The sound reverberated in our ears for a long time. A musty, dank order sneaked into my nose. Weeds of dark leafy were clinging on the roof, due to which any person would faint. The house's walls showed black decay with various names written on them with red ink or blood. Stains of original paint indicated the house's prior affluence. The fresh blood of humans covered the corners of the doors with tiny black spiders thread towards their loot. It reflected a royal yet haunted image as if Kings and queens lived here for centuries.

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.