His fingers were twitching a little. Probably just nerves. It freaked me out a little, made me nervous they'd move and mess it all up, but it didn't bother me too much.
Hello. You can call me "secret". That's what they called me all the time. My real name's Richard.
Razor's a bit blunt...
I grew up in a family of three. Father, brother and me. I'm not sure if he was my real father. At the very least I wasn't a blood relative of one of them. Not sure who. Brother could've been adopted, I guess.
I call him brother because that's all he was to me. Didn't care much for him as a friend, or even aquantance. We lived in the same building. That was as far as it went. His name was Frank.
Need to move his head a bit, can't see what I'm doing from this angle.
Doesn't matter about brother anyway. Father was the important one. The one with the job and the money and the house and the food. We had a maid too, I forget her name. Never spoke to her much.
Father was my only real companion. I spent most of my time in my room, making art. I wanted to be an artist. Father didn't like my art, but he wasn't rude about it.
Careful now... Careful... Good. I haven't lost my touch.
That was a nice life. Not healthy, I imagine. Sleeping on stone floor every night can't be good for you. Did I mention that I slept on the floor? That's a funny story. Father didn't think so, but he has no sense of humour.
Okay, done the delicate work... I'll just clean that up now.
See, I was always a clever thinker. Outside of the box, creativity, that sort of thing. Father approved most of the time, but sometimes it got me in trouble.
Thing is, I was making my art. I was painting a flower. But the flower was a rose, and I ran out of paint before I could finish it.
Oh. I love that. That horrible squelchy cracking noise. Wonderful.
So I went to mother. Did I mention I had a mother? Guess that's common sense. Everyone has a mother. Or used to. I'm not sure how it works, father never told me.
Nng. Knife's stuck. Come on...
So I went to mother, and she'd pricked her finger. And I saw the red paint inside her. And it was such a wonderful color. Infact, it was the perfect color. So I asked her about it, and she said it was blood.
There we go. Oh, getting to the bone now, time for the hatchet.
So I took the rest of the red paint out of her and I made a beautiful painting. But father didn't like it very much.
His fingers are twitching again. I should've severed the nerves.
So he changed which room was my room, and then he sent me to it. And I stayed there for... About ten years, I think? Infact, I think that was when they started calling me "secret". I thought about everything. Everywhere. Everyone. So much potential for art.
Come on. Just need a sharp pull...
So when father came round to feed me again I made him stop moving and I made brother into a masterpiece. My magnus opum.. Or however that goes.
Come on, come on... Maybe I need the hatchet again...
But for some reason everyone hated it so much. It was brilliant. It was perfection. Human art. But the outside people didn't like it, so me and father had to run. Brother stayed behind. Art can't move.
Come on. One more swing, one more swing...
So me and father found a house in the woods. The person inside was scared of me, but they're much happier now that they're art. Wonderful art.
There we go.
Oh, you must be wondering. Father is awfully heavy, and I don't want to make art from his beer-belly. So he only needs his head.
I made art for you. This was for you.
Please look father.
Father you're not looking.
Why do you hate me, father?