The Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

The artist didn’t notice the tears that were on the edge of Sofia's eyes that were now in the painting. Gregorio approached another painting, where Miguel's face was. He stared at it intently. "What a nice masterpiece!" Gregorio left the room. Where the room witnessed what happened to the two teenagers. He went to his bedroom while carrying the two paintings. The artist approached the large black cabinet, where he kept the paintings of his victims. He opened the cabinet, flicked the switch and when the inside of the cabinet lit up, layers of paintings could be seen, placed under the feet of a small statue of Satan.

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 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."

His lips tug up into the smallest of smiles "Wanna see what I've done?" I stand and walk to him, standing behind. The smell hits me, and I'm wondering how hard it must be to stand something like this, but I say nothing, staring at the his painting. His paintings, as always, are done with red and black, some charcoal he sometimes has a thing for. In it, there's a girl, in a cage tied to a chair, by her own guts coming out from her stomach and she has feathers, except she looks as if some of them have been plucked out, and her skin is blistered, bleeding, sores…

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 could pretend too. I set up a fresh canvas, squeezed out paint—deep crimson, indigo, burnt umber. Angry colors. I didn’t plan. Just attacked the blank space with broad strokes, letting the brush bite into the fabric. The city sprawled outside the glass, all sharp edges and cold light. I painted that first: jagged skyscrapers bleeding into a bruised sky. Then darker shapes—silhouettes of men with guns, hands reaching, mouths open in silent screams. And in the center, two figures locked together. One taller, broader. One defiant, reaching back even as he fought.

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.

Ada Wood worked really hard. The painting's last corner was unfinished. She wished to complete the picture. Jump out of the arms of and then pick up the cans on the ground, facing his arm, hard to row down. He stretched out to grab the scarlet blood that was flowing from his arm. Then walk to the last corner, pick up the brush on the ground, stained with the blood of millions of cool cities, and continue to paint on it. Ada Wood's paintings in the last corner are vivid red, not roses. It's a lovely flower. It can only exist on the road of the yellow spring, no matter how lovely it is. stands peacefully alongside Ada Wood, allowing her to use his blood as paint.

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.

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.