I am artist of great skill. Some may say I am crazy but pay them no heed. What they take for insanity is, in fact, my passion and abiding love for what I do. Art and passion often walk hand in hand, 'tis a wonder they think the unthinkable. At the start of my career things went well. I had all I could need, a family, a studio, and willing models. Willing, you see? No crazy man would ask someone to act as their models in the civilized manner that I have. Though I must confess that many were not worthy of the honor of being painted by my hands. Twas this thought that started everything.
Ah! I remember that night distinctly. It was dark as I sat in my studio surrounded by my masterpieces, creations so beautiful they hurt to gaze upon. Twas then that I realized, while listening to the thunder crash, that my hands had the power to create, to, in a way, give life. As I pondered this thought struck me; to give life is a gift indeed, but what of ending life? To be the giver and the taker is an ultimate power. A power only my hands could, and should, hold.
But how to archive this? My brilliance and passion for art drove me night and day to find a way. One winter evening it struck me. It was as if God's own thoughts ran though my head. I was painting a picture of a girl who's eye's glowed like naught else. My painting captured her brilliance and more. Only I could do such a work! No one else should be tempted to try! Their hands are not that of a god (like mine.) The girl smiled sweetly at me and I knew what I must do.
I reached over and grasped my sharpener; it had a blade sharp enough to suffice my needs. I walked over to the girl as if to reposition her, with the blade cleverly concealed in my overcoat. I stepped behind the maid and my hand took over as if moved by some unearthly power. The kill was a swift cut across the throat. Glee ran though me! The power was mine! I was finally all that I was meant to be! I was the giver with my creation of the perfect picture, and I was the taker by ending the life of the girl who was now embodied in my masterpiece. I was so powerful! There was just one thing left to do.
I stooped down and ran my finger across the cut. I rose up my hand, it dripped with her blood. I then sauntered over to the picture and signed my name at the bottom with the girl's blood. I then disposed of the body in a way I will not say. Knowing the police would soon be on the case of a missing girl I cleaned up most of the blood. I packed up my paintings and went home, but not before I left a gift for whoever was first to discover my deed. Now, would a crazy man do something like that? I think not. I can almost imagine the fear on the face of whoever enters my studio. Oh! But what would they think? What would a mere mortal (for, of course, I am a god) think upon seeing a hand of a young girl on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood?