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me. His breath smells like an open wound. He presses his
lips against my neck, and I feel him squirm
uncomfortably, as though I'm the one making him do
this. He is terrified of me, of course, of all women, I
think. That's why he resorts to violence so quickly. It's
the only thing his terror can stand. I don't believe he is
evil, merely desperate for some release from the
compulsion that claws at him, the constant strain of
sexual tension. I'm not so different. I remember it so
clearly, the first time. The feeling of understanding, of
artistic intent aches through my body, a series of welcome
and powerful pains pulsating through my joints and
muscles. Slowly grasping the nearby scalpel in my free
hand, I lean into him. I then carefully and gently, but
swiftly, begin to press the blade on his skin, cutting him
from forehead to throat. He stumbles .backwards, dots of
red starting to form, transforming into a bright red line,
and he runs screaming, clutching his face, leaving drops
of red behind him. I follow slowly, prepared to end his
internal turmoil, prepared to give him mercy. A large
attendant seizes me before I finished working though.
The case was thrown out, saying I acted in self-defense. I
never saw it that way, though.

I have always pitied the broken; I had always hoped to
fix them.

An overhead light creaks and swings in my workshop,
casting shadows. I snap back to the present, focused once
again on the writhing canvas before me.

"Now where did I meet you, Irvine?" I muse, my voice
muffled from a surgical mask and cracking from lack of
use. I clear my throat and continue, trying to rinse the
dust from my unused vocal chords before continuing,
saliva collecting heavy and bitter in my mouth.

Now that you're gone, I don't speak much anymore.

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