"The painter dipped her brush into the bucket," sang the voice of the girl.

She lifted her paintbrush delicately, staring at the bright red paint on its tip; it glinted in the candle light and seemed to wink at her. A slow smile crossed her face as she slowly slid the brush down the canvas in a thick line. The scent of paint was thick in her nose and she inhaled deeply, breathing in the satisfying salty metallic stench.

Her hands began to move faster, she struck the page with an artistic passion, covering the page with lines of various thicknesses. As formed more and more onto the canvas she hummed loudly, as though the song was fuel to her movements.

She dropped the brush into the pot of water; the loud plop seemed hang in the air momentarily before the sluggish silence engulfed it. The crystalline water lazily turned murky as wisps of red bled out, forming ghost like patterns until they merged into one phantom-like blob. The girl drew the brush from the water and cleaned it against her smock, where it left a faint red mark.

She reached over and grabbed a pot on the far left and peered inside the cup slowly swirling her brush around in an attempt to crack apart the various lumps that had formed. The crunching sound was not pleasant to her ears and neither was the stale smell wafting from the paint. With a sigh she jumped up from her stool and grabbed the carton of cream that was on the floor. She glanced back at her model and smiled widely proud of the spectacular arrangement she had created.

Slowly she poured thick blobs of cream into the pot, while mixing it with the paint. Soon the liquid consistency had returned but the colour had not. She scowled angrily as she held the paint covered brush up to the canvas as though seeing it in comparison would disprove the notion.

She placed her brush back into the murky water and strode to the other end of the room; she twisted her long blonde braid out of frustration and with her free hand opened the heavy door to the cellar. The smell of stale paint was frightfully strong that she had to fight the urge to gag. After composing herself she quickly descended into the gloom, her footsteps echoed coldly behind her as though a shadow mimicked her steps.

The girl tapped her way across the hard cellar flooring and removed the small match box from her pocket. Instantly she struck a match, illuminating the darkness before sputtering out. She clicked her tongue impatiently and struck another, cupping her hand over the feeble flame and dropping it on top of the unlit torch.

The torch spontaneously burst with light and illuminated the full room. She grinned and turned to the spot past the stairs where she could make out the faint silhouette. The silhouette seemed to sway back and forth slowly, though she was not able to tell if this was a trick of the light or the draft from the cellar.

Drip-drip, drip-drip.

She inhaled the dead air as she moved closer to the shadow, the stench of paint was far stronger her. She walked closer her eyes adjusting to the gloom; she could now clearly make out the shape of the shackles dangling from the ceiling. Her eyes ran down the shackles to the feet that were joined to them and rested at the jagged wound where the shoulders would be. Her eyes darted into the corner where a pile of foul smelling meat rested, rotting away in the damp darkness.

Drip-drip, drip-drip.

She smiled as she saw the blood from the neck steadily pouring out into the bucket beneath. She crouched down prepared for the hideous stench that met her nose, and struck a match. As the flame began to devour the matchstick she quickly inspected the redness of the blood. Pleased with the colour she grabbed one of the many buckets resting around the hanging form and switched the buckets around.

She hefted the bucket onto her shoulder and began back to the stairs where she doused the torch and ascended carefully; each drop of blood was a diamond to her.

She placed the bucket on the floor by her easel and filled the almost dried pot with a small amount, where upon mixing the dried blood quickly darkened and turned the correct shade. Once again she resumed painting, her hands working magically with the paint and brush.

The candles around her flickered evilly throwing devilish light across the agonised face of the severed head. The skin of the arms was waxy and pale, as though it was unable to rot.

She grinned insanely at the display she painted, truly proud of the hideous master piece. The forearms were poised on either side of the head; the fingers of the hands were splayed in fans so they seemed to draw the focus towards the head severed head.

Even though the eyes inside the head were glassy and lifeless the expression left on the face was that of sheer agony, the mouth twisted in a silent scream and the dead eyes wide from permanent pain; all of this was magnificent to the girl as she flicked and flourished across the canvas with her paintbrush.

All the while she painted she hummed menacingly a tune that seemed to have no musical rhythm but was full of emotion; however which emotion could not be said; nothing was made clear from the bittersweet melancholy tune. The tune which only her victims would ever hear the words.

"And the painter dipped her brush into the bucket," sang the voice of the girl.