Ah black the bleakest of colour’s, bleaker still being forced to be confined to such a place which all that is left, is you and the black. I wonder what he was thinking right about when I took him into the black, probably confusion maybe fear maybe both but it meaningless there “thoughts” are not why I brought them into the black. I look at my knife still swishing and turning each slash making my master piece even vibrant with colour.
At last my master piece is done each cut, each slash of my once virgin blade, I take a few steps back to bask in the majesty of my work the once behemoth of a man now nothing more than a piece of art mounted on my wall it astonishing his face contorted with fear his hand twitching his cold finger clutching for life. The pureness of the crimson consuming his body, just like me. Unfortunately, not my best work though still one of my purist. I reach in to my jacket pocket and take out a packet of smashed up pills my own creation for course, I drip a bit of the crimson in to the powdery substance, helps with the taste, I tip the whole bag on to the tip of my tunge. I'm instantly hit with sting of pleasure. I lean my head back in to the floor and close my eyes and let the narcotic run its course.
