****
Though she had never seen her bedroom as anything special, Adam explored it with such an intense and bewildered eye of excitement that even she was led to question her own feelings. An easel stood at the opposite side of the room with blank canvases stacked on their sides nearby as well as some carefully laid out pieces that she had yet to hang up and, as Adam approached these for a closer look, his wide-eyed gaze darting from canvas to canvas, Elizabeth pulled her box cutter—ordinarily reserved for shaping canvas and cutting open new supplies—from its place in a nearby drawer.
“Your work is so amazing! Where do you get your ideas from?” Adam asked as he turned to face his host.
Elizabeth hadn’t planned on her target's movement, and, instead of gracefully slitting his throat from behind as she had planned, she was forced to slash at him while the element of surprise was still a factor. Adam's eyes went wide as he instinctively jumped back, knocking over the easel and the paintings beside it. Though his footing had been compromised, he was able to remain upright and, stabilizing himself, stared in horror and confusion at Elizabeth as she advanced towards him. Adam stepped back in response to every step she took in her own approach, and, as his shaky feet brought him further and further back, he finally found himself boxed into the corner of the room. Trying to maintain the distance between them, he pulled the office chair away from the nearby desk and held it between him and his attacker. Elizabeth, not about to be deterred, cried out as she drove her foot forward and kicked the barrier aside before lunging, a primal yell escaping her lips as the knife found its mark.
She'd overcompensated with the jump—expecting her bulky target to be harder to take down—and ended up knocking them both to the floor. Adam's head made a hollow sound as it met with the wall and, though the fall was chaotic at best, Elizabeth was lucky enough to stay on top of him and keep him pinned while she got her bearings straight. In the end, since the overall intent was to kill him, the ends justified the means. While Adam tried to steady his spinning eyes and recover from the bump on his head the blade was brought down into his forehead. With her weight pinning him to the floor, Elizabeth fought for control. As she struggled to regain her footing Elizabeth slipped. Driven by her weak balance, the tip of the knife skidded across the surface of his skull, passing over his right eye and bouncing across his cheek and tearing open a jagged pocket that exposed the side of his clenched jaw and finally slipping free of his face and gouging into his shoulder where it sank in to the hilt and met with the floorboards on the other side.
The resulting trail and ruptured eye spilled a bloody stream across the side of his face as he tried his best to scream through both his mouth and the rapidly-widening new hole in his cheek. Falling back, Elizabeth took in the sight and shook in horror as she witnessed the aftermath of her handiwork; the corners of her eyes blurring and beginning to burn from the tears that were beginning to assault her vision. Adam's gargled cries were cut short then as the pool of blood in his mouth seeped past his windpipe and he pitched to the side, trying to fill his lungs with fresh air. All the while his left eye—his only eye—whipped about in a panicked frenzy.
Elizabeth quickly regained her composure and wiped the tears from her eyes as she straddled her thrashing victim and dragged the knife across his throat. The young man's screams, cut short with a suddenness that left Elizabeth's ears ringing, forced the air that had been fueling them and re-routed it through the now-gaping trachea and made the blood spurt and bubble, painting her face in Adam's death. As much as this went along with Elizabeth’s plans, it was not her desire to be a murderer, and she climbed from Adam’s chest and turned away, stifling a sob as she covered her ears and waited until the wet, gurgled sounds of his death quieted to nothing.
As the room finally fell into silence, Elizabeth took in a heavy breath to sate her screaming lungs and worked on steadying her nerves. Once she was confident she could go on, she picked up a cleaned-out jar she'd reserved for paints and began to fill it with her victim's blood. When she was finished, she pulled it away from the tapped wound at his throat and screwed on the lid before setting it on the counter.
Though the poetic irony of using the knife that had done the deed seemed too perfect to ignore, Elizabeth followed her normal routine and fetched the box-cutter that had come to be used for setting canvas. With the plastic housing of the tool clenched between her teeth, she struggled to flip the body over and cut his shirt from his torso before carving a large section of flesh from his well-toned back. Knowing she had one shot at getting it right, she started at his left shoulder and sliced down—trying to get as deep into the young man's meat as she could—to his rump and squared back again to his right shoulder before bringing it back around to her starting point. The process of extracting her winnings proved a bit more of a struggle than she'd anticipated, but her mom's spatula and a few final passes with the box-cutter finally freed the rectangular chunk of meat. Then, gagging and holding back the urge to vomit, she went about the process of flaying the flesh from the mass before finally hanging it on a drying line.
Though sickened by the thought, Elizabeth was relieved that Adam had been as broad in the shoulders as he was as it supplied her with a large-enough surface to work with.
While the skin was left to dry, she tore an old canvas off of a wooden frame and grabbed her hammer. The remaining staples were yanked free with the clawed end of the tool and discarded carelessly over her shoulder as she checked the frame for any imperfections. When she was satisfied that the frame was up to her above-average standards, she went to her drying line and retrieved the length of human skin. She was careful not to stretch it as she unfastened the clasps and carried it to the wooden frame with the love and care of a newborn before laying it across the foundation and stapling it into place; taking care to start at the corners before securing the sides with carefully-set staples. When her canvas was set, she trimmed off the jagged edges along the sides and tossed the scraps on top of the body where they rightfully belonged.
With that job done and behind her, Elizabeth turned her attention to the blood-filled jar and brought it to her work-station—a small, wheeled table with several rows of supply drawers that she kept in the corner of her room. Working with an unsettling sense of familiarity, she pulled out four saucers and her collection of oil paints and adorned three with several drops of blood before filling them the rest of the way with black, blue, and yellow paint. The fourth—saved for red—was filled with an equal portion of blood and paint. Though she hated to break the pattern, she set out the fifth saucer for white paint, knowing that she couldn't incorporate the blood without altering the shade. With the foundation colors prepared, several plastic spoons were then used to collect the set of primary blood-paints and place them on a strip of plastic wrap to combine later for varying shades.
In the end, it took a little over half-an-hour to produce the perfect paints to lie down on the perfect canvas—both made, appropriately enough, from stolen life.
It was all too perfect!
Anticipation had turned her breath ragged, and as she took a look at the dozens of sketches that she'd produced that day she allowed herself to let her lungs catch up with the rest of her. Finally, after nearly an hour of internal deliberation, she chose the perfect depiction—an eerie image of her subject peering past a fiery aura and leveling a pitch-black gun towards the viewer—and, fearing the possibility of tear on the flesh-canvas, used a soft pastel and an even softer hand to trace the initial outline.
****
The Friday morning sun lazily rose and allowed its rays to peak through Elizabeth's window and at the horrors that lay hidden within. Elizabeth, having refused her body's need to sleep and refusing her mother's calls for supper, cursed as yet another villainous element attempted to hinder her work. The change in light represented an altered perspective, and such an alteration could dramatically impact the way she interpreted shades and their depths and she hurried to adjust the blinds and the room's
lighting in her favor. When she was once again ready to work she turned back to her workstation and nearly tripped over Adam's corpse when her mother called up to her to start getting ready for school.
“I’M TAKING A MENTAL HEALTH DAY!” she called down as she regained her footing and moved around the body. Several years ago she and her mother had agreed that, for every school year, she was permitted five days—what had been dubbed "mental health days" for their potential to preserve Elizabeth's sanity—of excused absences from school.
Despite their agreement, her mother had been adamant about having the final say in the matter, and as Elizabeth waited on the response that would make-or-break the day her body remained painfully rigid. Still waiting, she crossed her pointer and middle fingers on both hands and prayed to any that would listen that her mother would accept the proposal and not barge into her room. While she had no idea what punishment was waiting for her, she nevertheless had foresight enough to know she would not finish Xander's painting if she was caught.
And the painting had to be finished.
The seconds ticked on, and with each passing moment Elizabeth grew evermore certain she'd have to use the knife a second time. Finally, however, after what felt like an eternity, her mother's voice echoed up the stairs with an "Alright, sweetheart. Have a good day!"
The wave of relief that washed over Elizabeth made her weak in the knees and she was forced to lean against her desk to avoid collapsing on top of Adam's corpse and collect herself before returning to her work.
Xander's face, she remembered, was very pale, and, for the first time in her entire life, Elizabeth found herself using much more white as a base than she'd expected; though the process of bringing the piece to life involved adding a great many more shades over this foundation. Over time, the snow-white face was layered with hints of yellow, blue and varying shades of red for blush and dimension. Gradually, more and more black came into play to emphasize the mystery and darkness that Xander had radiated in her dream.
Yet, no matter how much shadow she applied, it never seemed dark enough.
She was reluctant to go further, however; fearful that if she shaded too much it would rid the work of the depth and emotion that she'd worked so hard to create. She paced, chewing her lip and consuming nearly an hour of precious time, to take in the portrait and her intentions from as many angles as possible and struggling with her options. As the frenzy of her own doubt grew, an immense heat overtook her body until she was sobbing from the searing pain. Her head throbbed as her blood boiled, and she finally took to gripping locks of her hair and tearing them from her scalp in bloody clumps. Eventually there was nothing left to pull and her hands—now bloodied and caked in clumps of flesh and matted rays of sunshine—were wiped on her paint-smeared apron as the streams of blood that trickled down her face began to slow and scab.
The fire—an all-consuming and destructive whirlwind—reminded her of her dream; reminded her of Xander's rage.
And then she knew…
The mystery—the darkness and power that defined Xander—was the fire; it was his power, and she wouldn't be satisfied with the piece until she could depict it. His right side—his blood-red eye and a black revolver that carried with it a tremendous weight—would be visible; but his left would be occupied by his rage. Her brush became a blur as her vision—no, their vision!—came into being on the fleshy canvas.
Wanting to see herself in her masterpiece, she cut a lock from the few remaining on her mangled scalp and fed the bits into her batch of black paint to create his hair. Finally, she blended the paints to shade his lips—a deep and passionate red hue that mimicked the blood that her subject lusted after—and, before dipping her brush into the mixture, she brought it to her own lips and gave the bristles a loving kiss.
"You have been heard, Xander."
It was solid.
It was pure.
It was undiluted, uncensored, and unmistakable beauty.
And, as she worked, Elizabeth wept for who she was painting; all that he was and all that he would become.
Her work continued through a sleepless weekend—all calls from her mother dismissed and excused—and while she was certain that the seeds of suspicion were close to blooming, she took every minute of solitude to get that much closer.
Monday came, and with the first rays of morning the last brushstroke was laid.
Finished with her masterpiece, Elizabeth took a labored step back to look at her work with a confused mixture of immense pride and intense fear.
She knew what was to come next.
Like every weekday, Elizabeth's mother called to her to wake up and get ready. But she did not respond. While she had been unsettled by her daughter's distant behavior all that weekend, she had pushed aside her motherly instincts and forced herself to grant Elizabeth the solitude she'd been demanding, and while she'd always admired her only child's independence, her own nerves could only handle so much.
As she padded down the hall, determination and hope driving each soft step towards the poster-covered door, she became that much more concerned; an indescribable chill ran through her, eating at her core with a greater-and-greater ferocity with every gained inch. Refusing to succumb to the urge to turn away and seek warmth and comfort in distance, she gripped the glass doorknob and pushed through both the physical and mental thresholds.
The warmth inside should have been a relief, but the accompanying stench and visceral visions only served to freeze the breath in her lungs.
The boy—dead. Who?
She dropped to her knees.
Blood: everywhere.
She choked on a sob.
And there lay Elizabeth: an image of perfection and beauty and serenity—her hands crossed between her breasts and clasping one of her paintbrushes to her slit throat. The streams of life that crawled from the fatal wound had long-since stopped with the stillness of Elizabeth's heart, and the bristles of her brush held the last remnants of moisture; the last of her life growing cold in the clutches of her most beloved implement.
The image—a horrific-yet-beautiful eulogy—burned into the mother's soul and drew forth a stream of fearful screams, pained howls, and hysterical laughter that mingled in a single, insanity-driven symphony. Though she didn't know how long she'd spent pouring every emotion there was to spare, she knew—deep within herself—what she had to do. She did not open the shop that morning, but instead retrieved her charcoals and sketchbook and went on to draw her daughter exactly as she was before lying beside her and joining her in death.
****
The officers that discovered the aftermath of what was soon passed off as gruesome murder-suicide of an enraged mother that had caught her underage daughter with a schoolmate would speak of the scene like they would of a horror story. Skeptics and non-believers would question the claim of the infamous painting on the bloody strip of flesh, and their scoffs and mocking chuckles would be soon-after silenced as the rumors were confirmed. Though they demanded proof, the two officers had none to provide and, time and time again, had to explain that the boy's parents had demanded the body—all of the body—to be cremated so they could spread his ashes on the lake of their summer home.
Then, with a passive bout of laughter, the topic would shift.
****
It is a sad fact that no image can ever truly express all of the beauty within a subject and, because of this, none who have tried have ever succeeded in creating a piece of art that conveyed the same perfection as its source. And while it will forever linger as a limitation to man's abilities, Elizabeth Aphrodite pushed the boundaries on the day she painted Xander Stryker.
Lost within the fires that consumed the original owner of its canvas, Elizabeth's painting was, for the duration of its fleeting life, an image of perfection and an embodiment of all that she would ever represent.
A painting of the Crimson Shadow that told a tale of flesh and blood.
~SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER~
CHAPTER ONE
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br /> Rituals
Another night.
Another chance to finally die.
Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, Xander set it into the old glass ashtray on the nightstand to his right and let out a deep, smoky breath. To his left, lying in wait on the floor, was the wooden box bearing the Yin-Yang symbol on the lid. As he let the taste of smoke and regret linger a moment longer, he allowed his fingertips to brush the polished surface and dared another exhale, hoping it would be one of his last.
For the moment, however, he let himself remember.
After all, it was the only time of day he allowed the memories to come.
Reaching away from his cigarette—not daring to move his other hand from the box—he reached up to his bare chest and lightly ran his fingers across the pendant.
His mother’s pendant…
It had looked so much better—so much more appropriate—around her neck.
But she wasn’t around to wear it anymore.
Not since Kyle…
She wouldn’t want you to keep doing this to yourself, you know. Trepis’ voice was soft, almost unnoticeable inside his head. His involvement with Xander’s ritual varied from night to night, but one thing was clear: he was never in favor. Xander didn’t blame him. Under any other sort of circumstances he probably wouldn’t be either. The painful truth of the matter, though, was that things were bad enough five years earlier to warrant the attempt, and they certainly hadn’t gotten any better. I certainly don’t want to see you doing this to yourself.
Xander shook his head, “Then close your eyes.”
Noir: A Crimson Shadow Novel Page 2