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The air was chilling, a wintery paradise; pure white covering this beautiful landscape, the perfect canvas lay bare in front of me. A field untouched, the early sun shimmering down, guiding my motion as I painted my newest artwork.183Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqlrbx1TFeZ
Swirls and strokes forming upon this wondrous canvas; my creativity fueled at the sight of this crimson hue. Red was simply sublime, a color rich and vibrant; it was always my favorite, enticing and addictive even. 183Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnYsCumQ81b
I continued on with no particular shape or pattern, as my inspiration went from mind to canvas. This feeling it gave me, this thrill pulsing inside me; this is what I lived for. The scent of fresh blood, its warm feel against my fingers, as I painted on this snowy canvas.
The rush of killing sure made me feel great, but nothing was more powerful than the sensations sparking within me, as I drained the very life essence from those lesser than me. Fresh blood meant painting new artwork; a joy indescribable surging within me from every kill.
Year after year, I came back to this long forgotten wood shack; for all of winter's length, I would paint on the vast snow fields, every day at sunrise. And upon spring's arrival, I would watch my creation slowly fade, as my canvas melted away. Killing fueled my passion, painting made me feel alive.
My heart would race, a somewhat forlorn expression on my face, as winter's passing meant I would not kill nor paint for three whole seasons. But I felt no despair, for I knew the wait was worth it.
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