This all came to me as I was watching an old man today. He was creepy, serial killer like creepy. He was maybe around sixty, possibly a bit younger. He looked very hands on, fit, like he lived a hard life and worked plenty with his hands. There was just something with the way he looked at people that irked me. Man or woman, child or elderly, he watched them, intrigued. He looked very thoughtful and didnt just give them the once over. I swear he examined them thoroughly, from toe to head. He took his time too, studying them. He was utterly intrigued by everyone. It freaked me out and thus a story was born. Its not gory or anything. Thanks to anyone who reads :D

He first saw her walking along the dark street. The incandescent moon glimmered on her porcelain skin. From just a look, a glimpse, at the girl; he ached to touch her. She hummed to herself, following the path. The want and desire powered him, forced him to do what came so naturally. It was fast, she never saw him coming. It was just a hitched gasp and then lights out for her.

He took the time to bind her, carefully so. He would do his very best to preserve what was now his canvas. She looked so peaceful, stripped of all her modesty, lying in her sweet slumber, unbeknownst that soon her once blank surface would become a true beauty. Time was all he waited now, and time he had. Once she began to stir he would commence.

His tools were at the ready. Time was all he needed. He was calm, serene. A calloused hand lightly stroked her hair. A finger traced her delicate features; across her eyelids, down her nose, over her perfectly plump lips. Her eyelids fluttered and he grew excited; it wouldn't be long.

A whimper sounded and the thrashing began. Her eyes were large, a stormy gray. She whined and screamed; the gag muffled all. Perfectly shaped tears slipped. He wiped them clean away and smiled lightly. She winced. He shushed her, lulled her. She would scream and cry, plead and beg, but the end was all worth it. Her efforts were wasted and in time she was defeated. Each line, every nick, after all slow and fast jabs, she was quiet, still.

He loved it all, the work and recognition; He only wished they knew it was he. All his glory was hidden though his masterpieces were showcased. The thrill of seeing his most prized art beaming in full color on the mechanical box reminded him of the lust he felt. The crimson red, Flowing in moving picture and the strokes and streaks lining their bodies, they drove him further and further into his obsession. The casings, which he decorated with his love, heart and soul, were out there for everyone to see.

There was no sex, no immortalisation, no disrespect; he cared deeply for these girls. And, in his mind, he did them a favour. He made them so beautiful it was a sin to live.

Tadaaa. Hmm.. It felt weird writing this. I thought a lot more things but in the end I wanted it to be ... I dont know... I wanted him to be understood I guess. This is how he felt. Not someone else. He doesnt think of himself as a monster, but rather an artist. I could have gone into gory details but thats not really the feel i got when I wrote this. I think he really did care for the girl and killing her alone wouldnt satisfy him, he didn't need all the blood, or even the conflicting of pain. Of course it all helped, rallied him into it but first and foremost he did for his art..... kind of twisted but yea. ok, Bye!