tw: gore

In a wet burst of crimson red and pure white, I threw the colours onto the rough canvas. The slick sound of oils blending with other substances heightened my artistic fervour. It was as if the hues pulsed through my very veins, causing my hand to quiver with emotion.

The soft pinks, and the thick, rigid crusting of red that formed before me made me hard. The candle’s flickering light casted a warm glow on my canvas, enhancing the vivid colours as I blew out a trembling breath.

She was already a vision of beauty. My magnum opus.

With deliberate strokes, I blended the hues, breathing life into a captivating portrait that echoed the essence of my late wife. Bless her soul. The palette of flesh tones was carefully chosen, reflecting the thrilling image of her as I remember her now—her throat a canvas of torn, raw textures, each mark telling its own tragic story.

The dappled red merged seamlessly with the white, creating a marbled pink, reminiscent of the soft, exposed fatty tissue on my wife’s inner thighs. I dipped my brush into the easel, skilfully blending the colours to craft a rich, burnt copper shade—the exact shade of her hair as I remember it before. Bright, vibrant, and rich in sunset.

Not like it is now. Dull and matted, crimson drying at the scalp. Some may say her radiance is now dimmed—but I don’t see it that way. She’s more beautiful in death than she ever was in life. This is the only way I have strived to see her. But, out of romantic respect, I paint her locks as they were when she was breathing. Soft, bouncy, and brighter than day.

I crouch down and dig my brush into the slowly pulsing jugular of my almost-dead wife’s neck. The futile twitch of her lifeless form sent more of my own blood down south. The fabric of my breeches tightening around me.

With my paintbrush reloaded in my wife’s essence, I return to my masterpiece as she bleeds out between my legs, a haunting reminder of the fleeting nature of existence, and how quickly I can end it for the sake of desire.