The Independants/Rap Sheets/Emterror

From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

I am still… waiting. I wait for the pain to begin. He thinks himself an artist. He is meticulous… thorough. He traces lightly. It tickles and itches. The artist sketches first. He must be sure of his strokes. I am sure. I know his strokes will hurt. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And that art, which he creates… I cannot behold. I wish he would stop. Tears threaten to drip from my eyes. I am his muse and canvas. Will the tears back from whence they were born. Afraid, so very afraid. Exposed. Naked. Vulnerable. He loves the combination. Add betrayal and a masterpiece is born.

He fancies himself an artist. I hold my body and face still as he starts the cut, following his drawn lines. He starts the light strokes. He is upset that I refuse to inspire. A violent deep angry stroke follows. One… two… three … four. Tears fall. The pain and betrayal overwhelms me. His statue cries. And he is satisfied.

Left alone, the silence deafens. I want to cry but dare not. I will not satisfy him again, not today. Twist free from bondage inwards and outwards. Tend to the strokes and paint… dripping down. I am his statue, his canvas. He is the artist, the sculptor.

Reality awakens the pain. No. He is no artist. He is a butcher. I am meat.