World of Sin
By Laura Shell
Copyright 2024 Laura Shell - All Rights Reserved
Eric collected knives. All of his friends and relatives knew this. That is why they gifted him sharp things for his birthdays and holidays. He had quite the collection. They adorned a wall of the kitchen in between the counter and the fridge on ten magnetic knife holders. His favorites were the colored damascus because some of the color was blood. His blood.
There was a damn good reason for that.
Eric was one of Los Angeles's top up-and-coming artists. He had just been commissioned to produce a one-of-a-kind painting...anything he wanted. Money was no object.
Standing before the canvas, 4H graphite sketching pencil in hand, Eric frowned at what he'd accomplished so far... He'd only drawn the outlines of a couple of faces, nondescript faces, emotionless faces. He needed more. Money was no object. He needed to take this more seriously. This was to be the best badass piece he'd ever produced.
But what more did he need, exactly?
There was only one way to answer that question...only one way to get beyond this rut.
First, he moved into the living area, to the stereo, and played the song World of Sin by the rock band who had commissioned him to render this artwork. It was for their album cover, but more than that... The words "world of sin" played a major part in the journey of the piece. Especially the ending.
He placed the song on repeat, then moved into the kitchen and stood before the wall of knives. The overhead light was beyond brilliant. He'd made sure of it...needed as much light as possible to illuminate all of his favorite sharp things.
His arms folded over his scrawny chest, he scrutinized each knife, one by one, waited for that certain knife to make itself known, to "speak to him".
And there it was, on the sixth row, an all-purpose Bowie knife with a 15-inch blade. The sucker spoke to him by slipping from the magnetic strip, turning once in midair and sticking into the hardwood floor below.
"Nice."
More at ease, Eric pulled it from the wood, took it over to the kitchen sink, held it in his left hand. He sucked in a long breath, and as he slowly exhaled, he dragged the razor-sharp edge of the Bowie across his right palm. Twice. Making and X. Good thing about ultra sharp blades as they raked across his flesh—no pain.
He placed the blade on the counter beside the sink and let the rivers of blood paint his hand and arm.
Back over to the canvas, Eric wiped the blood all over his right hand, his fingers, his forearm, down to the elbow, allowing the blood to drip wherever it pleased. It dotted his bare feet, his jeans, his white t-shirt.
And then Eric licked the palm of his right hand.
Eric didn't wear contacts or glasses but his vision became something akin to HD.
He picked up one of the sketching pencils, allowed the blood to bathe the length of it, to streak it, to consume it. He listened intently to the music that permeated the room.
As if on its own accord, the tip of the pencil along with Eric's blood, touched the canvas and began to move at a hurried pace. Within ten minutes, Eric had produced the hairline thin outlines of eight faces—faces of the lost, of the fearful—in front of a cityscape adorned with roses, surrounded with flames and smoke trails. It was fucking gorgeous.
But it needed more. MORE.
This piece was the most important of his career. He had a fucking great outline. But the piece screamed for paint.
Even in his HD daze, he couldn't see what colors he needed.
Eric heard a thud. It came from the kitchen.
"What the fuck?"
He went into the kitchen and found a 25-inch khukuri blade imbedded in the floor below the wall of knives.
That had never happened before. One knife was all that was ever needed. What the hell was going on? Why would he need a second blade?
Eric realized. Actually...it was more than that.... He felt an ache that came from the bones of his right arm. It made it feel three sizes larger. That's when he knew...
He needed more than one blade because this piece demanded it. It was that fucking significant.
Eric went back to the sink, dropped his bloody pencil into it, picked up the khukuri. He was about to do something he'd never done before.
He pressed the curved tip of the khukuri into his palm twice, creating a cross symbol. So now, he had a damned asterisk in the palm of his hand.
Holy shit, there was so much blood. That was a good thing?
Maybe.
Eric smiled as his palm filled with bright red body fluid, the symbol he'd created barely visible. The bottom of the white sink turned red.
He heard another thump.
The curved blade of his karambit knife had fallen from the third row and found purchase in the hardwood floor.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me. How much blood do I need to bleed?"
Eric stared at the wall of knives as if they'd provide a verbal answer. After a few minutes of nothing, he shrugged, grabbed the karambit, stood at the sink again, then utilized the curved blade to etch a circle around the asterisk.
Back in that HD daze, blood gushing, Eric went to his paint case. With that bloodied hand, as if on autopilot, his ears ringing, he randomly began to take out tubes of acrylic paint and squeeze dabs of various colors onto the palate—white, orange, teal, black, blue, red. Next, he chose a couple of paint brushes.
Eric froze for a few seconds, allowing the blood from his hand to lather the paint brushes, then following the pencil's outlines, he began to expand on his artwork.
And holy shit... His dazed HD state along with the music... And all...that...blood…
It leaked into the paint but did not change the colors, only made them exponentially more vivid. But the blood did drain fast from his veins. Faster than usual. But it didn't worry him.
And as he continued to paint, as he nearly finished, his HD eyesight turned blurry, his entire right arm slathered in blood, a huge puddle of it around his feet, the right side of his body covered with it from the waist down.
Eric began to wobble.
"Oh, shit." He needed to find the strength to say the words to return himself back to normal, to close his veins, to stop the flow of blood.
"Whhh...
Eric blinked and blinked. Everything in the room became blurry...except for his painting. That goddamned painting. It was...his fucking masterpiece.
His whole body became limp. He slumped to the floor. Blood from the puddle at his feet slapped up into the air, then crashed back down onto his face, getting into his mouth. He didn't even react. He couldn't.
Eric took a hard look at his painting. Goddamn, it was the best he'd ever created. And as he heard the last beats of his heart thudding all around him, mingling with the music, he raised his right arm and reached for the painting. "Whhh-oorr...
He heard the song. He heard the words. He just couldn't say them.
"Whhh-oorrllld."
The loss of blood took its toll. Eric closed his eyes as he slipped into blackness...and silence.
About the Author:
Laura Shell quit her job in August 2023 to become a full-time writer.She’s had several stories published, and will have more in print in 2024, including her book of horror stories, titled The Canine Collection released March 14, 2024.
Purchase The Canine Collection
The Canine Collection on Amazon
The Canine Collection on Barnes & Noble
Read More Horror Stories by Laura Shell:
Those Goddamn Vultures
What A Mess
Swirls
Swing Set in the Cold
Moving Day
The Old Guy
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