I'm not fucking crazy.

The red on his fingers spilled from the incisions on the tips of the fleshy shapes. He licks his lips, hissing as he continues his work, but, this time, on his left hand.

Blood trails down the knife's handle, down his arm, and drips onto the cold, wet ground. The crimson, thick liquid draws out of his fingertips, and he smashes his hands into the wall.

He gives a gruff laugh as he swings his hands around, the crimson forming some kind of symbol. The symbol, while sloppy, is easily identifiable to him. Blood drips down as each letter is formed. One after another. One after another.

A twisted giggle escapes his cold, dry lips. "It hurts... So much..." He starts shaking. Tears stream down his face. The blood keeps flowing from his arms and his fingers.

"I love painting. It's fun." He looks at his beaten, bleeding fingers, and sighs. "But, I need more blood."

/

"I'm not fucking crazy."

The black haired teenager comforts her as she sleeps. She's beautiful; bright blue eyes, dark brown hair. He snickers at the innocent, angelic look on her face.

"Beauty is art. Would you like to be a part of my art?" he whispers, a harshly soothing tone pouring out of his voice. The angel in front of him gives no response. "You haven't any choice in the matter."

Grabbing her by the back of her thick, beautiful hair, he drags her over to the nearby window. The girl, obviously awoken, screams for help; for mercy. To him, though, mercy is only an imaginary toy.

The only sound in the house is the smashing of glass as she falls. He watches as she lands on her face first, the sound of bones crunching on the pavement, making him smile.

/

"I'm not fucking crazy."

The drips of red keep falling down the white wall. The blood is drying fast on the bandages on his fingers. Every time the blood runs out, he simply smashes his cold, cracked hands into the intestines.

"Ha! This- this is beautiful!" he says, almost as if this "work of art" is his child. "Just... Just... It needs... One more thing."

/

A week passes.

No call to his friends.

No call to his family.

No call to anybody. Because, in that room, smeared with blood and horror and guts, was the greatest piece of art he had ever created.

A canvas, painted with blood: "I'm Not Fucking Crazy". The bodies of those he had murdered are littered everywhere. The people that used him; the people that hurt him; the people that brought this on themselves.

He is at peace, now. Because he is leaning up against the wall, a knife in his chest, eyes open, with a light smile resting on his blood stained face.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Hello. This is not my first experience with writing. Actually, this is rather short, and I'm not too impressed with it. It's actually an old story revisited that I originally posted on my deviantART account.

But, I just wanted to show everyone what exactly I can do. I have quite a few horror ideas, and this is just a quick writing prompt to see what everyone thinks. Please, don't leave negative comments. Constructive criticism is one thing. Being a dickhead is another.

~BrokenSerenade