I take a step back, and let it sink in. It's pleasurable to look at, but it won't do to leave it there. I'll have to move it somewhere. They don't understand. I try to stop, it's not like I really want to do it. It's an uncontrollable sin. But looking back at it, I can't help but feel almost... proud. But again, it's not acceptable. Intricate carvings, spirals and harsh edges spread all over it, all over my canvas. I guess there are better ways to convey my emotions, better materials to use, but my method is addicting. I let it bleed, seeping deep into the lush white carpet below. It's not the first stain, it's messy, but isn't all art? I take a picture, because I can't keep these canvases. I drag it to the fireplace, preparing myself for the familiar burning smell. I just always have to remember one thing.
It, not they.
(A/N: this story isn't based off any personal experiences, it's just an idea I had)
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Short Stories
हॉररVery short, generally eerie or depressing (but occasionally sweet) small drabbles that I randomly come up with.
