Blank Canvases

Chapter One

The Artist

His heavy breathing and the loud thuds of his shovel hitting into the ground were the only sounds.  No birds chirped, no dogs barked.  Nothing.  He was alone for miles.  No, not alone.  He had his art collection and he had her.  He had everything he needed.  Besides, he liked the peace.  He liked to enjoy his art without distractions.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and burrowed deeper into the frozen earth, striking it hard with the steel shovel.  He was breathing heavily and his muscles ached from the hard labor.  He disliked winter; it disrupted his plans and overcomplicated matters.  Yet he was still on a high, powering through the discomfort until he hit the soft soil that rested beneath the hard exterior.  He quickened his pace, easily tossing aside the dirt, creating the perfect resting place for his priceless work of art.  She deserved the best.

He discarded his shovel beside his neatly dug hole and walked back inside to fetch his fine art piece.  Soon their time together would be over and he would have to go in search of a new canvas.  It was a vicious cycle that repeated itself often.  He loomed over her, pausing to take in her beautiful form one last time before he would gently move her to her final resting place, where he could keep her close by him.

She lay neatly on the cold tiled floor.  The lights above her flickered, threatening to plunge his work into darkness.  Her small, delicate body was pale.  The color that had once flushed her cheeks now drained.  Her lifeless body lay limp on the cold tiles.  Her chest was no longer rising and falling evenly with every breath she took, the blood no longer pumping through her veins.

Her once straight blond hair, now stained with her spilled blood lay matted and knotted; sticking out at odd angles as it messily framed her slender face.  Her blue eyes gazed vacantly upwards, looking into you as if looking into your soul.  As if she saw everything instead of nothing.  They were once bright and full of life, yet now they resembled a vast ocean of emptiness.  Her previously lush pink lips, now pale, dry and cracked, were partially opened in a silent scream, a scream that had died with her.  Silence now taking its place.

She had been his favorite.  He almost felt sad she was gone.  Almost.  The memories were fresh in his mind, he was still reliving those moments.  Excitement continued to pulse through his body, like wildfire spreading through his veins.  She had definitely been the best, the most pleasurable.  She was also the most stubborn.  He had enjoyed her.  The free-spirited ones were always the toughest to break, they were more strong willed.  However they weren’t impossible.  They all cracked eventually, succumbing to their inevitable demise.  Pleading to be spared, begging like the beasts they were.  They didn’t deserve his mercy.

At first, the strong ones had angered him.  Their fight nothing more than an inconvenience to him.  Over time he had grown to appreciate it, even desire it.  The quick deaths became boring; there was no thrill in it anymore.  Watching someone’s spirit break, the spark fade from their eyes... the feeling was unbeatable, not to be replicated.  It was euphoria.  The more he killed, the more he needed to.  Like a drug, murder was addictive.

Murder was his drug.

Staring down at her confirmed it.  Her torn shirt and blood-stained jeans evidence of the night they had shared.  That unforgettable night spent together.  Her body was battered and bruised in contrast to its previous flawlessness.  Jagged cuts covered her body, but no blood.  She had been carefully wiped clean.  Her blood had concealed his work from him, his latest masterpiece.  Yes, there was no doubt.  She was his favorite.

Matt

Matt Erikson walked slowly down the corridor.  It was gray and drab, dimly lit and black tiles.  The dim lights barely achieved their job of making the hallway visible.  Plain wooden doors with name plates interrupted the continuous stream of gray on either side.