The Artist

I watched in desensitized silence as the figure before my feet bled helplessly. The tangy stench soured my nostrils, the dim light cast grim shadows that skipped and reflected meagerly off the blood pooling down the curb and into the gutter.

Hell, as any Christian knew it, was history. Quite literally, it was becoming a part of history. Earth was a living figment of such a place, and anyone else, whatever they thought about death and suffering before, now held a new meaning to the words. There was no easy way to explain the sudden appearance of extreme sadism, carnage and violence that had been release upon earth as we had known it. Two or three years ago, at the least, the world had opened up to new parallels, other planets and universes that brought forth races either escaping from their own universe or prepared to conquer a new one.

I, myself as a human artist in the era, was no longer shocked by blood, by any sort of horror beyond your imagination. I'd seen so much in those few years that hardly anything could surprise me. My art became my savior. It was inspired heavily by the horrors and carnage of the time. The newer race, somewhat grotesque in its features to many people, became inspiration that saved my ass, since they enjoyed it. They discovered, after they found me, for I had gone into hiding like every other sane human, relying only on my writing for comfort, that my dark writings of twisted stories, poems, and sketches quite amused them. But my art took a harsh turn.

As I watched the world become more bloody, humans fighting like dogs in the streets, I began to loathe the common humanity. Of those people I cherished, I rarely saw them alive. Few were useful and those encounters I savored graciously. Only too often, however, I would see the body of someone I recognized, threatened to be devoured or used for some ritual.

I couldn't bear to watch that, and so, I took an interest in sculpture, carefully using the recently dead corpses of old friends or acquaintances until there were too many lifelike sculptures around my studio. There were, however, times I would see those gifted with important or entertaining skills or of some other usefulness alive and well enough. Those who gave in. I remember one in particular, strong and now far more ruthless than before, a trainer, having completed any challenge they gave him no matter how gruesome the task. His survival instincts crept up and overtook him, nearly consuming and turning him into a monster.

It was people strong of the body and strong of mind that survived.