Red.
It was glorious.
It tasted of freedom.
Of death.
It was splattered across the walls.
It's beautiful, dizzying streaks.
It reminded him of his hands.
Drenched in the same colour.
A smile. A smirk. A snicker. A squeal. A shatter.
But that was enough, eventually they would find his work and it would be printed on the papers, on screens, on the words of people and then he would do it again. They would never catch him; couldn't they see what he was doing, it wasn't even a challenge to him anymore, he would freely paint the world in red…or pink. He quite liked both colours; pink needed red but it also needed white and white represented so much and then red, more sticky, delicious red.
He spun around in a circle, the kitchen knife still in his hand; its grip wet and slippery but his blood-soaked hands held it tightly. Laughing, giggling he stopped, dropping the knife on the floor. The formerly black and white checked floor. Well too bad then because now it was red, not like they could care anymore. He straightened out his vest, it was a bit messy and he would have to get it cleaned again; society didn't like red as much as he did unfortunately. He walked to the kitchen bench, picking up a long discarded cupcake. Half of it was consumed in the red and the other half was shielded and was still an innocent shade of pink. Running his free hand in his straw like blond hair he walked to the door and went out of the house. The night greeted him with a breeze and those stars.
He walked on the footpath casually, pouting at the missing familiarity of the colour red. Taking a bite out of the cupcake; the sweet sugary taste mingling with the addicting taste of iron. Oh how he loved that taste, it was so unusual but it had something that he needed. That he thirsted for.
That glorious taste of blood.