MasukHe became a completely different person.
It was as if he'd been possessed by an encumbered spirit as soon as he crossed the threshold of his home. He is a family man, or so she thought. A handsome one, who sought after his daughters' needs. A loving one, who'd greet her with a charming smile. She remembered while bleeding from her wrists. The rope was meshing into her skin and she bit on a cloth and closed her eyes. She remembered.
"Oh, you made it." He smiled. He had an alluring, dangerous sort of smile. The type of smile you'd have with a coffee, dark and mysterious.
Crystal smiled shyly."I couldn't turn down your offer, now could I?" She looked around at his studio.
"It's a mesh of almost everything." She spotted his Baroque-inspired curtains. "Wow", she said under her breath. He'd been watching her reactions the entire time, it made her shy. His eyes looked eager, attentive but sweet.
"Would you like me to show you around?"There was that smile again. He smiled, as mountains smile to see the spring. She thought to herself: Man I could write poetry about this man.
"Crystal—"
She was gently woven out of her daze by his hand. She reacted quickly out of impulse." Yes, sorry." She hoped that wasn't awkward. But he scoffed with a smirk and led her to another room.
"This is my recreational area." The only modern thing hanging in this vintage area was the television on the wall.
"That's a huge screen." She commented.
" My daughter, she loves watching cartoons."
She nodded." Where is she?"
"By her mother." He ushered her into the other half of the house. Where his personality started to change, little by little." Her grandmother, that is."
He showed her one of his dark artworks.
"This I'd say is one of my best artworks." He became boastful. "Better then Francisco Goya right?"
He was very passionate when he spoke about his artworks, he had a pretty morbid perspective of life. He wasn't fazed by it though, Mr Perfect always has a side to him. Everybody has their sides, it depends on which one they choose to show.
"Would you like to see my studio?"
He was standing awfully close to her, so close her heart started racing. Not in alarm but in infatuation. His eyes, like those of a pitiless judge, seemed to go to the very bottom of all questions, to read all natures, all feelings and thoughts. And he was looking down at her, at her eyes, at her lips.
"Crystal?"
She stuttered. "Ye— Yes?"
He tilted her chin with his index finger. She was now in full view of his blue eyes."Are you sure?"
And that was her undoing.
She was wearing a classic trench coat, with a fedora and that hid most of her red hair. Sitting across from a concerned family, she stated."Like any private detective, I have seen many things in my years, even previously as a former agent."She took her hat off and entwined her fingers. "But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come." As the husband held his wife in his arms, she wailed as the detective continued. "I am sorry for your loss."
There she was. As a lusting satyr grabbed at a feminine figure, Dona was now the sleeping Hermaphrodite artwork. Approaching her from the rear, Harry thought she represented Venus, but, the front side revealed something unexpected.Why had she been represented as Aphrodite's son and not Aphrodite herself? She was stark naked, posing like a doll with no expression. He wanted to touch her, to stroke her cheek and feel the urgency of the scene in front of him. His chest was caving in, and he found it hard to breathe. The tears st
The doorknob twisted and a light twinkling of metal came from outside. With murderous intent, Harry flung open the door, clinging onto the arch in need for support. Like a cunning serpent, he entered the garden of artworks. Grabbing his phone torch; he lit his way through the gallery.The air was dry, and his sinuses gnawed at him. He sneezed so hard he stumbled into something near the wall. It was wet paint. The gallery was still in the making, the interior design was incomplete, but there were
No matter the room, the smell of rotting flesh followed him like a shadow. He had to steady himself on the walls, trying to escape the voices. Fervent wailing and inaudible speech vibrated all around him. He staggered his way to an unassuming door at the far end of the house.He turned his back to it as soon as he fell, rolling down the door with his stomach clenched. He held his head in his hands, shaken and confused he looked up. Looking down the hallway, the paintings and all their tumult ceased. He was now able to breathe,
*Trigger Warning* This chapter contains graphic contents.Breathless, he stood outside of Tony's residence. His throat was dry, as he swallowed in the sultry rage bobbing around his apple. He kept flicking his forefingers together. It was the witching hour, and he didn't care.
His ribs convulsed with every breath as he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees. Sweating profusely he tried to stand but rocked his way back to the bed. He felt groggy, a headache, was waiting for him along with the clutter of a new day. He stood and stretched his shoulders, twisted his neck and walked towards the studio.He'd find himself wandering around like a desert wind, without a place to rest. He tried to stay busy with something other than work- he knew that it was a bad idea to be enthralled by the