In the Eye of the Artist

by Pairiny10

Stefano Valentini, former war photographer, artist, and serial killer, was lucky to survive his battle with his final masterpiece. Back in Crimson City his actions had consequences, his life is now spent locked within an insane asylum. Maybe, being visited by his masterpiece would give him the grounding he so desperately craved for. But a curse can easily be disguise as a blessing.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Evil Within. This story will contain, blood, gore, violence, psychological horror, and dark themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

Red.

It was all he could see. It dripped down his face in dark rivulets, clung to his pale skin, and stained the ground beneath him as he staggered on forwards. The agonizing ache and searing burn that pulsed through his body each time he took a shaky step forwards was incomprehensible, clouds of mist blowing back into his face with each ragged breath. He felt like he would collapse any moment as he coughed and struggled to catch his breath. He would not let himself succumb to the darkness. He feared if he did so, he might never return. No, he continued through the freezing cold that chilled his bones and blinding snow that threatened to sink him under.

The tattered remains of his scarf were hastily wrapped around his neck, tugged on by the chilling wind, and his torn coat was wide open as its buttons were missing, torn threads jutting out from where they had once been. Only one of his gloves remained, though a few of his fingers were left exposed to the cold, his hands clutched tightly. In one the pieces and parts of a once-elegant camera and in the other a crippled photograph, that he fought tooth and nail for. He would not ever let go, even if his fingers froze and rotted off his hands one by one. No pain brought upon him would bring him to his knees. He must go on. Must never stop through the cold and snow. He was going to escape.

The hope of freedom helped him to trudge forwards, looking back would do him no justice. He had to get out. Before he found him again. He would not let him get to him. He has gotten so far, to crumble now would be… pathetic. Yes, it would be indeed… His heart skipped a beat as his feet tripped over each other, stumbling he toppled over. To his luck, he was able to only crash his knees into the snow before hastily bringing himself back to his feet. He felt his knees quiver from the weight of his tired body and the soles of his feet screeched in pain. He was so tired. Shaking, he winced as he took another painful stumble forward, his ruined shoes crunching underneath the snow. His heart stuttered in his chest, and the blood in his veins froze to ice. A chill breeze sweeping over him, and a quiet whisper ticking his ear:

"Do you feel that? It's your lifeblood spilling onto the earth beneath you before your soul is dragged down to the fiery pits of hell."

All bodily pain left him for a single moment as raw adrenalin was pumped into his bloodstream, and he began to run. His strained legs used the sudden rush of energy to propel themselves forward with as much power they could muster, his chest burned from the chilling air stinging his worn lungs. The cold now was not only freezing but burning him from the inside out. The red was becoming a cancerous sickness that clouded his vision and drenched the world around him. He could feel the storm grow stronger in intensity a thunderous hurricane, though, through the blankets of crimson, he could feel the eyes of God leering down on him, as a titan would an ant. He could not let him get to him. His body could not take any more punishment. No more bruising to his skin, beating on his head, or cursing in his face. He wanted to wretch at the mere thought; he had already, but the red that seeped from his lips encouraged him to keep it down. He would not let the demon's claws tear his soul apart. No, he would not let him get to him.

No matter how his chest burned with every panting breath, and his sore legs felt as they would snap under his weight. The snowy path ahead of him became clouded by dreary mist and glistening tears that ran down his bloodied cheeks. Maybe if he had not let his vision become blurred by his ugly tears, he would have seen the oncoming shift in terrain. It was already too late for him when he stumbled upon the patch of cold ice. His foot slipped from underneath him, and he fell, hard. His stressed body slamming full force onto the ice before tumbling into the snow. Pain spiked up his side, and the cold snow burned his exposed skin. The world around him spun in a swirl of dark red and tainted ivory as he laid collapsed in a heap, he wanted to hurl.

"Your efforts to run from the inevitable are fruitless. How pitiful you are, groveling on the ground like a pathetic worm."

The horrid sound of the voice ringed through his head, the whistle of the wind never-fading along with his ragged breath. The pieces of his broken camera scattered around him, his fall only adding to the carnage as he caught sight of a lens shard. He groaned as he struggled to push himself up, only to fall back into the snow. He could not see himself getting up until the sheen of gloss buried in the snow caught his eye. The photograph.

"I'll punish you for your insolence, you fool. I'll make it so you'll drown in a pool of your own blood gasping for air. Your death will be of God's work."

He shot up to his knees, his body screamed at him in agony, he ignored it. He winced as he threw himself across the snow, barely grazing the paper's edge as the wind began to take it away. In a mad dash, he lunged through the white powder, desperately grasping for the photograph as it danced into the wind. He had to get it back, nothing else mattered to him in this single fleeting moment of panic. Gritting his teeth from the exertion, he made one final reach using all the strength he had left in his legs. His determined attempts left him clasping only snowflakes melting in his palms and his knees crashing into the snow beneath him. He stared blankly at where the photograph had fluttered off into the night. Biting back a sob in his throat, he could only look back down, a broken piece of his camera stared back up at him, Veritas.

"You'll always be known as the talentless hack everyone believes you to be. No one will mourn your corroded legacy, only mock your death. You'll die a whisper to the world."

The scream that ripped from his throat was one of utter anguish and suffering that cut through the cold air like a knife. He wrapped his bruised arms around himself and curled his beaten body into the bleeding snow. He watched through glossy eyes as his tears dripped down the edge of his nose to stain the earth beneath him.

"Stefano?" he visibly stiffened at the sudden voice above him. It was not a thunder in his head, but a hum to his ears. He should have felt relief at the worried tone of the voice, but a tide of shame washed over him as he bit his lip. Freedom was never an option. Looking up, he was met with ocean green eyes of a man, standing above him, the crimson snow tearing through his body as if he were an apparition. A horrified expression twisting his features as a crumpled photograph was clutched in his gloved hands. "Look at you, you're bleeding."

Φ

The rhythmic tick of a clock's arrow. The rough texture of ivory parchment. The scent of charcoal that clung to dancing fingers. A tranquil environment for the art of creation. Create, he did. His careful hands created gentle waves and twisted streaks across his canvass with shades of soft grey and inky black from his hunk of charcoal.

"Mr. Valentini, are you listening?" the intruding voice pulled him from his reverie, though he kept his hands steady. Taking a deep breath, he glanced upwards, his remaining eye a shallow crystal shadowed by a darkened ring, showing lack of proper rest. The man across the table who wore a white coat that rested upon his shoulders stared back at him, a calm yet impatient expression across his aged features.

"To every little word you say." His voice smooth and hoarse around the edges, as a small smirk curled his accent. The man sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"If you were paying attention, you would have answered my question by now." The man gestured to the piece he had been working on. "What are you drawing?" He steadied his drawing hand and looked back down at his artwork. His smirk stretched into a smile

"I am creating art. It is what flows through my veins and gives my soul life. Do you not see the beauty of my art?" he grazed his fingers over of his piece. "It's no masterpiece compared to my real-life piece, but it is still simply glorious."

"You still did not answer my question." The man's voice firm as his expression hardened. "I shall ask you again, what is it?" A lively glint flashed in his eye as he traced the dark lines of his artwork, long slender legs, a beautifully arched torso, and a glossy lens.

"This is my Obscura. My most beautiful creation." The man raised an eyebrow.

"Your Obscura. Like a camera?"

"Why yes, a camera crafted by my hands." The man took a quick glance at the drawing.

"It doesn't look like any camera I have ever seen."

"She is incomparable to any other camera. I created her to be a creator of beauty, she took the most magnificent photos. If only she were with me now…"

"Where is she?" His smile wavered as his last memory of his beautiful Obscura shrieking into a merciless oblivion.

"Gone."

"Where to?"

"It doesn't matter. No matter how much you try, you could never lay eyes upon her. For she is not of this world, but of another. One where I could create true art of unimaginable proportions, and creations only a god could imagine. It was heavenly."

"Ah, so it— she is from the other world, similar to the 'Guardian.'"

"Certainly, but I cannot go back, unfortunately. It is gone, just as my beautiful Obscura."

"Why did you decide to draw her? To reminisce perhaps."

"No, I do enough of that on my own. Her purpose was… the same as mine, to create. So, in her death by drawing her, she still continues to create from her mere image."

"Well, if you cannot create in the other world, why not create in this one as you are right now? You are a very talented artist, and your drawings prove it. It's a great outlet for your artistic tendency to create, it will be perfect for your health as well. You simply need to commit to this art form, and you'll feel much better; and others around you will as well."

"No, no, no, I'm afraid that is not possible."

"How come?"

"It does not satisfy me, not truly. My artistic need is not fulfilled by filling a blank canvas with ink and paint."

"Then why do you continue to draw?" he could not help but scoff at the question.

"I am an artist, and an artist must always create. A true artist would not let any force interfere with their artistry. If I must change from my preferred medium to create art, then so be it." The man's eyes narrowed as he forward and rested his arms of the white table.

"I am assuming you have realized that your form of 'art' comes at a high cost. Your free will is what it took from you this time, just imagine what will happen to you in the future. You are a very lucky man to be sitting in front of me, rather than rotting away in a prison cell or worse waiting to be put to death." The man's finger pointed to the macabre drawing. "Do you still want to continue your preferred art?" His cruel smile returned as he glared lucidly at the man in front of him.

"If only I had my camera." A sigh escaped the man's lips, and he leaned back in his chair, a disappointed look in his eyes.

"I see… Looks like we still have some ways to go, but I have an idea that might help our progress. For today, however, our session is over." The man reached inside his coat and clicked a red button of a black device inside his pocket. The click of a door opening sounded from behind him, followed by a pair of heavy footsteps. The man smiled at him. "I hope you get a good night's sleep, Mr. Valentini. Don't forget to take your medicine." He smiled back.

"Oh, I won't, doctor." The heavy chains around his wrists and ankles clacked together as powerful arms grabbed him by his shoulder and lifted him from his chair. The black cladded guards gripped him tightly from each side, keeping his arms in place and no room for free movement. He tried not to mind. The guard on the right nodded to the doctor before grabbing his drawing from the table.

"Be careful with that mind you. You'll smudge it." He felt the grip on his right arm tighten. The doctor gave a sharp glare, and the guard loosened his grip with a grunt.

"Whatever you say." Under the gruff voice, he could hear the word 'freak,' he muttered, but he paid it no mind. He had been called much worse. "Move it, we ain't got all day."

He was escorted out of the room; the doctor's smile was the last thing he saw before he was greeted with the harsh white walls of the corridor. He was mortified by how blank and plain the walls were, they needed an artist's touch to bring them to life. He kept his gaze low to the floor, which was thankfully a checkered black and white, if only they hand red curtains draping the barred windows. The chink and clatter of his chains filled the hallways as the guards led him twists and turns, deeper and deeper, until he recognized the darkened hallway that ended with a door. The heavy metal door had an electronic key card pass next to it, which one of the guards swiped his keycard through. The light dinged and flashed green with the sound of locks turning before the guard pushed the large door open. What the door opened to be a room, a room that held a cell further back, with a glass pain and a metal door with serval openings that led into the cell. Two men in white garbs were in the room, standing in front of the cell, waiting for their arrival.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Valentini. We have your room all cleaned up for you." The younger man beamed. "How was today's session?"

"It went rather well. The doctor greatly enjoyed my latest artistry." He spoke as the guards shuffled him to the cell door. The guard with the picture handed it to the younger man, who held a brief look of surprise before it was overshadowed by a wide smile.

"Oh, how lovely. I'll make sure to put it with the others." The man said as he placed the drawing on a small metal cabinet in the corner of a room.

"What do you like about it?" he asked as the cell door was opened, and his ankle shackles were removed. He was shoved into the cell by one of the guards, and the door was slammed closed behind him before locking. He turned around, put his chained hands through a rectangular opening in the lower part of the door. The younger man appeared in front of the door with a wipe in his hands and began to clean his chained hands from the dark charcoal that stained them.

"Well, I think the shading is well-done, and the details on the camera are nice." The man grinned as he finished cleaning his hands and stepped back to let a guard unlock the metal restraints around his wrists. He pulled his hands back inside the cell, and the latch was immediately snapped shut by the guard.

"Why thank you for your praise, I really do put effort in my works." He rubbed his sore wrists, where the outline of the cuffs had marked his pale skin.

"No need to kiss up to the poor bastard. He can't get you from in there." One of the guards nudged the younger man's shoulder on his way to the exit.

"Don't worry, we can handle him from here." The man brushed his shoulder with the back of his hand.

"Sure, you can, David. Just don't lose a finger, alright?" The other guard chuckled, swiping his keycard through the lock before leaving the room with the other guard.

"Jackson can be such a child at times." The orderly sighed.

"He's not wrong, though." The other garbed man commented.

"Sad, but true." He watched as the brown-eyed man came to stand in front of the glass with a grin. "I put your medicine on your desk for you as always." He turned back to his cell. The walls and floor were a disgustingly blank white, but the accompanying bed with gray pillows and matching gray comforters along with a small silver desk put up against the wall bolted into the floor. This was his 'home' now. It was not his choice. He walked over to the desk and sat in the metal chair that was hard on his back. Dotting the blank space of the desk were five pills: two small yellows, two small greens, and one big red. He immediately began to organize the pills, lining them up single file, grouped together by color, starting from yellow to red.

"Why does he always do that with the pills? Is it an OCD thing or something?" he could hear the other orderly grumble underneath his breath. He chose to ignore the comment as the orderly's companion shot him a glare.

"Just be grateful that he takes them." He began popping the circular pills into his mouth and swallow. He fought back the urge to gag when the medicine slid down his throat. He did not need any medication in his own opinion. Yes, he was 'sick,' but his sickness was one not meant to be cured. He forced the last pill down anyway; he did not have a choice. He looked back towards the men to show his medicine had been taken.

"There, all gone."

"Great, we can leave now."

"Don't leave so soon, gentlemen. We're not finished yet." He called out to the orderlies in front of the glass with a grin. "I have a secret. Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure, what is it?" the brown-eyed orderly asked. His grin widened.

"Come closer, and I'll tell you." He husked with a gesturing finger. The two men looked at each other.

"That's a terrible idea."

"Isaac, calm down, he just wants to talk." The other orderly looked skeptical and glance at the cell before quickly looking away when he made eye contact with the serial murderer.

"I doubt that's the case." He hissed under his breath, trying to ignore the intense gaze coming from behind the cell glass. "We've done our job; we don't have to listen to him."

"Technically, we have to listen to whatever a patient has to say. No matter how…" the younger orderly bit his lip in thought, "eccentric they may be. We must keep up our standards."

"Alright, but I won't hesitate to hit the alarm." The other orderly conceded, going to a panel of buttons on the far side of the room, leaning back on the wall. The younger orderly took in a deep breath and turning back to the cell. He was met with the intriguing gaze of a single icy blue eye. He took a shaking step forward and a quick glance at the surveillance camera in the corner before walking up to the glass.

"Not in front of the glass. Come to the door." The fallen artist pointed to the metal fixture.

"Is that necessary?" At the question, the artist quirked his head to the side with a smirk.

"No, but I would be ever so grateful if you did." An uneasy feeling pooled in his gut that reached his beating heart. Regardless he shifted to stand behind the door. His heart skipped the beat at the sound of footsteps approaching the other side of the door at a quickened pace. They stopped behind the door, and the sound of breathing tickled his ears. He did not dare look up, knowing a piercing gaze would meet him through the small window.

"Okay, you can tell me now," he said, keeping his voice steady. A sharp tap on the other side of the door nearly caused him to jump, as the lower slot began to jingle.

"Open this up first, and I'll tell you the secret."

"Why, can't you just tell me right now?" the tapping ceased, leaving only sound of heavy breathing to be heard in the cell. "Hey, are you alright? I know you haven't been sleeping well, is that what you wanted to tell me? Your most likely exhausted. I can ask the doctor for a different medication to help you sleep." He reflexively looked up for a response and promptly realized his mistake as he felt his blood run cold. The sharp gaze upon him, sent a spike of fear through his heart.

"Don't even think of it." His voice sounded clear as day through the door as it crept into his soul. For a moment, he worried if he should have listened to his companion as he rubbed his left hand, the ring finger showing signs of past trauma. To his relief, the man behind the glass did not make any further move closer and stepped away from the door. The artist's glare lightened, and he gave a brightened smile. "I can assure you I am fine. I don't need any more 'medicine.'" He sauntered towards the bed against the wall and plopped down with his hands folded in his lap. "My apologies for disrupting your schedule, I can tell you at a later time. I know you'll quite enjoy it, but I would like to rest now, if that is alright with you." Moving away from the door, the frightened orderly struggled to find his voice as he fumbled with his words.

"O-Of course, have a good night." He smiled when his heart rate finally calmed, he took a glance at his partner who had had a hand placed over a bright red button on the panel, the look of exasperation clear on his face. The brown-eyed orderly turned back to the cell and the man within. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Valentini."

"Why you're welcome, Mr. Carpenter," Stefano said with a smile.

Φ

Sleep was never something that came to Stefano with ease. Unlike the talent of art creation, which came to him as naturally as breathing, entering the realm of sleep without a struggle was not gifted to him. Which is why he spent most of the night resting on his side, waiting for sleep that would never come. It got rather dull, merely lying in the darkness, waiting for the sun to rise, not that he could see it. He was grateful when morning finally arrived, and the nurses entered the room to 'wake' him for the day. His morning medication was given to him through the slot in his cell door, the guards present in the room stared him down while he assorted his pills. He read their ridged body language with ease; they were not a fan of his. Lowbrow brutes they were. The orderlies at least had the courtesy to humor him, though they were still uneducated oafs.

Though there were a rare few that met his standards of cultural intellect, they had faded away before he had a chance to hold onto them. Sadly, the Neanderthals here would not be able to satisfy his artistic needs. He could only find a small outlet for his urge to create in drawing during his "therapeutic" sessions. Which if his understanding of the staff routines was correct, it should have a occurred an hour ago. No one had come to transport him, and he could not hear any footsteps in the hallway. He was uncertain why? Was there was a scheduling issue, had a patient got out of hand, or maybe had the old doctor finally croaked? He would not mind that misfortune, but the trouble of him not being able to put pencil to paper became an itch he was unable to scratch.

The unusual slouched position he had at his desk was a testament to that. He was not allowed access to materials or paper while in his cell due to... past experiences. Thankfully while exploring his limitations within his prison, he found a frail substitute. His caretakers made sure his nails were trimmed down to the skin, but with enough force and the proper angle, he was able to make faint marks on the smooth surface of his desk. Scraping off the silver paint veneer to uncover the tarnished ivory beneath, to create simplistic yet detailed artwork. The echoing sound of nails raking against metal filled his cell as he painted the picture he envisioned in his mind.

It was one of the most agonizing ways for him to relieve himself; being denied satisfaction had led him to scratch the paint off walls and floors, fogging up the glass with his breath to draw shapes, and even as going as far as to mark his own skin. They had made sure to keep his nails short after he had drawn the first drop of blood. That did not stop him; he would not let it. Even as the remains of his nails cracked and his fingers blistered, it hurt him, but the pain was a price he would easily pay. Besides, it made the experience more exciting when the threat of ripping his nail from his finger loomed over him.

Lost in his stupor, he nearly missed the familiar beep of the electric lock, and immediately repositioned his arms as the metal door opened. He turned surprised to see the doctor come in, followed by the two guards. The doctor came in smiling, clipboard in hand, and white coat fluttering behind him as he came up to the glass smiling. So, nothing had happened to him; however, he rarely came to meet him while in his cell.

"Apologies for the delay, Mr. Valentini, but there was a change in plans."

"May I ask what plans have changed, doctor?" He repositioned himself in the chair to properly face them.

"The plans for our session. I have had an idea rolling in my head for the last couple of weeks but was not certain if it was the right decision for anyone. However, I was... motivated to make this choice, and as long as you behave yourself, I won't regret it." He calmed his breaths to still his beating heart as a rush of excitement rushed through him.

"Oh, doctor, am I not always behaved?"

"Why certainly, in fact, I believe it's time that we take a step further in your treatment. It surely must be repetitive to see the same faces every day, a new face would be refreshing, would it not?" He felt thrilled to see where this was going, the ache in his fingers fading away.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful, doctor. A new face is another key to the gate of inspiration. Certainly, much more favorable than having to lay my eyes on these brutes all day." He gestured to the guards standing behind the doctor, he could already see the ire beginning to boil in their eyes.

"Now now, Mr. Valentini, be polite." The doctor scolded through his grin. "They are here to help you as am I. I'm guessing you already put the pieces together of what is to happen today. I have decided to allow you to receive a visitor. Now isn't that exciting news?" It certainly was considering he had never received a visitor in this wretched place. Though a question raced through his mind.

"Of course, it is. However, it depends on who wishes to visit the great Stefano Valentini? I highly doubt it's an admirer, and you won't let a critic visit me with some unfortunate consequences. I wonder who it could be..."

"There is nothing to worry about. I assure you that he is quite interesting to be around. You'll like him."

"We'll see."

"We shall," the doctor glanced down at his silver watch. "Any moment now, actually. I must leave you now for today, please don't be afraid to open up to him as you do me. I hope for the best. Farewell, until tomorrow, Mr. Valentini."

"Goodbye, doctor." With one final smile the doctor left, the guards stood in place however not moving in inch. The room was left in still silence, the thrum if the vents and the quiet whisper of breath being the only remote sound in the room. It might not have been as tense if it were not for the searing glares of the guard that threatened to shatter the glass between them.

"No need to be so on edge, gentlemen." He scoffed. "Keep in mind that I am well behaved."

"Yeah, like a bitch." The guard snarked, never letting up his gaze as a smile formed on his face.

"Don't antagonize him, you're going to cause a scene again." The other guard warned, though the other continued to smirk.

"Oh, don't me tell your scared of this son of a bitch."

"No, but you'll get our asses busted if they hear what you're saying."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself with him, Mr. Ward." He tutted with a wave of his hand. "You should pity him, really. Mr. Jackson only lashes out as he does due to his lack of unable to obtain a spouse because of his horrid brutish nature." He gave a smirk if his own. "Unlike me, who is naturally a lady's man." The burning shade of vermillion that shaded the guard's now fuming expression was indeed an amusing sight to witness. He was given a better view of the bright hue when the guard began stomping towards the glass. The other guard stopped him with an outstretched hand unfortunately before he could get any closer.

"Keep it together, Jacks. He's screwing with you."

"Be lucky that you're in there, bastard. I would rip out that eye out from your goddamn skull." The guard hissed through clenched teeth.

"I'm terrified." He snickered cruelly.

So effortless it was to rile the rage of a dimwitted barbarian. The enraged expression of pulsing veins and bared teeth, however, it would be much more enjoyable with a bullet lodged between the piercing eyes. The sudden electronic ping of the metal door caused the guards to jump back from his cell and straighten themselves out as the door opened.

"Right this way, sorry again for the trouble." The voice of the orderly flooded into the room, "If you wish to stop here, now will be the time."

"Stop? It took too damn much effort for me to get here. Like hell, I'm stopping."

He perked up at the voice that hummed with a fierce heat and an uneasy familiarity. Though no face came to the sharp tone. He knew he had heard that voice before, maybe in a dream. His intrigued peaked as a figure came into view in the doorway. Then the figure stepped into his sight, and the world around him went coldly still as a photograph. He knew that face. He knew that tanned skin over a muscular body, ruffled black hair with streaks of grey from age, and rich brown eyes that still held the same fire that blazed within them from the first time he gazed into them. Standing tall before him was his failed masterpiece.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Castellanos. Please enjoy your visit." The orderly said with a small smile as he exited the room, followed by the guards. Before the last guard left the room, he addressed the visitor. It was too quiet for him to hear, but the glare the guard looked at him with told him it had something to do with him. When the door finally slammed shut with the last person gone, he was left alone with a man that was his only tether to the world long destroyed. The man looked him up and down with a calculating glare, and he glared in return, he almost brushed his hair out of his face reflexively as to receive a better view of the man before him, but froze as he ran his bare hand over scarred tissue; no camera here.

"I knew it was real," he chuckled more to himself as his lips curved into a grin. "Not a dream or an illusion I conjured within my mind... Liars, all of them."

"So, this is where you ended up after all." The man remarked, crossing his arms over his chest. Yes, his voice was just as he remembered. "Honestly thought you would be six feet under by now with all you have done, but seeing you trapped in here for the rest of your life, is good enough for me. How long you've been in there?"

"Too long. They do not allow me any of my toys, and I'm restricted to drawing with chalk like a child. It's insulting. However, now that your here, this place might be more... inspirational. How did you find, me?"

"Not that difficult, when the unknown serial killer of Krimson City was finally caught years later, news tends to spread." A beat of silence, he could already see the new creations come together in his mind; inspiration was a beautiful thing.

"Well, now that you have found me, what do you want of me. To mock my failure, rub your victory in my face, destroy what's left of my art or..." he leaned forward in his chair, twisted grin still on his face, "Perhaps, revenge is on your mind." A sudden look of surprise crossed the man's features.

"Revenge? I'm not that angry." He said as he lightly shrugged his shoulders. It was his turn for a puzzled expression as his brows lowered.

"You're not upset? I highly doubt you have that kind of forgiveness in your heart. Especially after all I have done."

"Yeah, you've done some shitty things that deserve much more punishment than this, but I'm not going to be the one who gives it to you." He narrowed his gaze to a cold stare.

"Why?"

"Why would I?" The pit dropped from his stomach; his stoically cold glare faltered into one of disbelief. It couldn't be. The man was simply playing with him, how crass of him.

"You're trying to rile me up, aren't you, philistine?" He cracked a smile, retaining most of his decorum. "My apologies, but your unruly tactics aren't appreciated. In fact, I—"

"Hold on now, who said I was trying to "rile you up"? If I wanted to piss you off, I would have just told you your "art" is shit." The man uncrossed his arms, running a hand down his face. "Jesus, aren't you a piece of work." He sighed. "Look, let's start this over." He grabbed a metal folding chair on the side of the brought and set it down in front of the cell. Sitting down in the chair, the man, the man gave a smile, it didn't reach his tired eyes.

"Sebastian Castellanos, no one too important. I'm just a guy who wants to talk to you. It's not every day you're given a chance to meet a serial killer claiming his murders to be a work of art." Sebastian leaned back with a smile that had molded into a smirk. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Stefano Valentini."

The air went cold. He could not remember the last time he felt his heart lock up in shock or a rush of dread burst through his veins in a cold chill. Probably when he witnessed his beautiful art being subject to cruel violence, boorish masses ravaging what was left of his lost masterpieces. Or maybe when that final bullet was shot in his face, blowing apart what remained of his own aperture and sending him into darkness. The man who shot that very bullet, sat across from him in blissful ignorance. Whatever semblance of a smile fell from his face, the sickness of indignation twisted his expression into a grim scowl.

"You are a filthy liar." the hiss left his throat with quivering trepidation. "You must be. You spew nothing but lies. You know who I am."

"Of course, I know who you are. I wouldn't come here if I didn't. Though now that I'm face to face with you, you look different than I thought you would." The cruel man's brown eyes examined his tense form, his fingers digging into his arm. "You look like a regular person. If no one knew who you truly are, they would accept you as one of their own. Probably why you were able to get away with murder for so long. But there's something that's been bugging me, every time I look at your case. You were off the record for nearly three years and then suddenly appear out of thin air. Most people who disappear for that long never come back. So, my question to you is, where did you go after you left, Krimson City?" It was a simple question to answer in theory, but it took most of his resolve not to burst out in anger. Fine, he could play this game as well, better even. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly released the grip on his arm and force his scowl into a smile.

"Well, if you really want to know." He chided. "I went to a little town called Union. It's not on any map in the world, so there is no use in trying to seek it, but I was fortunate enough to find it with the help of some very special people. And it was an absolute heaven. It was quite mundane on its surface; however, once you pulled back, it's veneers of simplicity, a whole new world of wonders opened from underneath. A world that could be molded to my whims with a mere thought. I could play God, and my artworks were unearthly glorious to the human eye. I was able to create with no pig-ignorant critics or uncultured heathens to infect my world; I had found a place where I could be at peace with my true self. And nothing could ever get in my way. That was until..."

"Until what?" Sebastian asked, leaning forward in his seat. The light had faded from his smile, leaving a dark smirk in its aftermath.

"Until you killed me." The shock in his eyes was sickening to his core, he knew what happened.

"I did what?! I don't understand anything you're saying." Genuine frustration raging within his voice. He couldn't help but chuckle though it was not from any joy.

"You do not need to understand. Only know that when I was at my peak, you came and tore me down and destroyed my legacy with your vile hands. I only had a moment to look through my camera's lens before you sent a bullet through my head, and then..." his nails began to dig into his thighs as the horrid memories started to resurface like a haunting memory. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think I couldn't create. I experienced what Hell truly is: an abyss of darkness.

"It was you who sent me to that hell, for I couldn't tell you how long before I was brought out into this reality." His lips were pulled into a thin line as anger began to take over once more. "Now I'm stuck here where the sick try to cure the sick with their filthy hands. They try to help with their treatments and medicine, but I do not see the point in their madness. Why try to heal something that is not meant to be cured? It's pure insanity to me. However, they do not care what I think. They do not see an artist; no, they see some diseased creature that needs to be sedated." He took in a deep breath, a sly smile returning as he regained composure. "And frankly, it does not matter to me how the neophytes see me. They're tainted with lies and false pretenses of life that corrupt their world view. I want to know from the perspective of the man who killed. So, I ask you, Mr. Castellanos, what do you see?" He leaned back in his chair, grinning, waiting for a response. He didn't get one right away as the horrid man continued to stare at him with a look of shock and confusion, which shifted into an expression of what looked like doubt. The moments ticked into seconds, the seconds into minutes before his mocking masterpiece decided to break the silence.

"So, that's what goes around that fucked up head of yours." He scoffed. "No wonder you're here. You're actually are a goddamn psycho; I don't know whether to fill bad for you or laugh at the fact you can't comprehend reality. It's actually really depressing, though I'm not crying." The chuckle that followed struck a nerve as the man laughed at him. "You got some imagination to think I shot you. That external darkness shit sounds pretty awful, not sure if you were figurative or literal there. If it's anything to you, sorry for killing you, I guess." A small smile had formed on his face by this point. What a cruel man.

"But to answer your question," he stated as he pulled himself together. "What do I see? Just a man who failed to be a good person, in my opinion. A man who let himself succumb to the evil he has within him, leaving him just to be a delusional "artist" covered in scars the world gave him. You can hide that with all the grandeur and false emotions all you want; you'll always be a sick bastard." Sebastian chuckled to himself. "One thing we can agree on, I have no idea why these people would even try to—"

"Scars, you say?" He interrupted, combing a hand through his dark hair. "They are repulsive in nature, aren't they? The stain the supple skin of the body, leaving behind only misery and hatred. Not to mention it ruins the integrity of one's flesh, it becomes much more difficult to mold after it has been tainted by a scar."

"What's your damn point?"

"My point being," he allowed a smile to form,

"You're covered in them. I can see them everywhere, in that hideous face of yours, your blotched arms, the slits of your wrist. I couldn't see them before, but now that I'm closer to you, I see them all." Sebastian folded his arms across his chest, but not how one would try to hide their shame.

"Now you're losing me, what does it matter to you that you can see them? Does it strike some sort of artistic nerve you got?"

"No, but it's terribly impolite to have one's scars shown so openly."

"You're one to talk." Sebastian scoffed.

"Whatever do you mean? I at least have the decency to conceal mine." Underneath his hair, he racked over the mangled mass; he shuddered just thinking of it. It truly was an ugly thing.

"Have you looked in a mirror lately jackass? Those arms of yours look like a goddamn mosaic." He bit back a retort at that and looked down at his arms; they were covered in pale skin that glistened in the artificial light. They were perfectly fine, with only a few scratches from when he had dug his nails into them. He ran his dried fingers over the smooth skin.

"You speak foul nonsense; I normally don't wear short-sleeved blouses, but I don't really have a choice, do I? Though, may I say I do appear rather attractive. " the man gave him a quizzical look, raising an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?"

"Compared to you, certainly."

"Hate to burst your inflated ego there, but you ain't as pretty as you think you are."

"And you're not as clever as you believe yourself to be." He retorted somewhat irritated; he rubbed the palm of his hand over his arm. Smooth as silk.

"See there, we both have different perspectives of reality. I see something of yourself you can't, and you think I'm someone I'm not. Who's to say whose right?"

"Maybe if I began giving myself scars, your "perspective" would become a reality. Engraving delicate cuts with a rusty blade into my flesh would be a satisfying sight for you, surely." He sneered, grinning, giving himself goosebumps at the mere thought of slicing open flesh with a dagger, leering at the crimson blood seeping from the freshly opened wounds, and the tormenting pain that would course through his veins with every slice across his pale skin.

"If only I put that bullet in your head, you said that "killed" you, then you could have rotted in hell instead of getting to draw another breath of air." Sebastian retorted back, his gaze hardening. "If only I killed you." He could hear the sharp tinge of each word as it left his masterpiece's mouth; it sent a shiver down his spine he had not felt in a very long time. The loud beep of the door interrupted anything else that could have been said between them as an orderly opened the door.

"Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but times up for your visit, Mr. Castellanos." The orderly greeted. "Please allow me to escort you out." He sighed; all good things always ended so soon.

"Well, Mr. Castellanos, I took great pleasure in our discussion today. Hopefully, in the near future, you'll take some time out of your life to come to revisit me. I would love to continue this little game of ours."

"You'd be lucky if they decide to even let me through the front gates, but I'll be back. Be sure of that."

"I'll be waiting." Sebastian gave one last look at the killer behind the glass before standing and walking out the door. As the door closed, he could hear faintly, of the orderly's goodbye to the visitor.

"I hope you enjoyed your visit, Mr. Castellanos. St. Eden Mental Asylum wants to thank you for your cooperation."

Φ

Beautiful. She was absolutely beautiful.

Her form a feminine mystique as she posed to show how her deep blue dress extenuated her curves and the luminous emerald jewel around her neck that matched her vibrant irises. How lovely. His camera was able to capture all of it. All of her essence and beauty put into a single being of grace and purity. Each flash of his camera's lens captured a new angle of her luminosity, every light around degrees perfect for highlighting her magnificent features. He paused to adjust the focus on his camera. She had always been his favorite model for artistic expression, with a little more molding and blood she would become his masterpiece. It gave him goosebumps just thinking of what she would become.

"Stefano, what's on your mind?" He looked up from his camera to meet his model's alluring gaze. She had broken through the setting he created to address him, even though she was still in her set pose. Photographs never spoke with words. It was unflattering, but she could be easily forgiven. Moving his camera away from his eye to see his model through the natural eye.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you always pause during my photoshoot when you think of something. You never stop unless your creative stream is interrupted. I hope it isn't me."

"Oh, no, it's not you, cara." Given a chance, he took a step back and re-examined the scene. Everything was in place as he had set it, the lighting was perfect, the out of his model flattered the setting, respectively, the model herself a picture of perfection. Though he did notice one slight imperfection that could smoothly go unnoticed by an uncultured eye.

"It's the Roses that are the issue." Stepping into the small world he created, he began to rearrange the bouquet of crimson roses that lay delinquently in the ivory vase next to his model. His maroon glove protecting him from the deadly thorns. With a final artistic choice, he finalized his vision, but froze stock still when he felt the light graze of soft fingers comb through his dark hair. It would have been an issue if not for the fingers tracing over the mass of scar tissue that used to be an eye. A beautiful one at that.

"My apologies, your hair was out of place. I'm surprised you didn't notice." He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to curse at his model. She should know better. He turned to her, a fretted expression on her pretty face. "Stefano, personally I..." she bit her glossy lips as she planned her next words. She should choose them very carefully. "I believe that you shouldn't hide it, it's a part of you. There's no need to be afraid to show it."

"I'm not afraid of what the neophytes have to say of my face, for it is not my art."

"It doesn't make you look ugly, if that's what you think."

"Oh, no, I've learned to accept my body a long time ago. There's nothing I can do to change it, so why fight it. It's a pointless struggle, honestly."

"Then why conceal it?"

"Because it's quite impolite to have one's scars showing. A scar taints the image of one's being, the body is meant to be viewed as a beautiful specimen to be admired and that torture anyone's gaze with the sight of corrupted flesh. If you aren't pleasant enough for the world's eye, you've already failed at being an acceptable human." Puzzled was how his model looked at him, eyes narrowing with pursed lips.

"Wherever did you learn that?" He couldn't help but smile at the thought as a woman glinted within the corners of his mind.

"It doesn't matter. What does, however..." he took a step closer to her; she did not so much as flinch from at his sudden movements, only continuing to stare intently into his gaze. "Why do you care? Does it bother you; I cover it for a reason?"

"No, not at all. I just wonder why one who knows so much of beauty chooses to hide their own." For a moment, he couldn't reply, how would he at such a preposterous statement.

"I beg your pardon?" his model gave a sorrowful sigh past her lips.

"Stefano…" slowly and tentatively like a firefly to a flame, she raised a gentle hand to his face and brushed back his curtain of ebony hair, revealing the marred skin beneath. She did not show the slight look of repulsion at the sight, she had before when he had once slipped, and she caught a glance at the gift war had given him. Though as time passed, he noticed how the look of disgust faded away replaced with what he could only define as pity. With the softness of a mother's touch, her angelic fingers grazed the rough flesh of scars. Her touch was warm as it had always been and held a sense of comfort, he rarely ever had the chance to feel.

"You've been hurt, I can see it in your eyes. Not only by the horrors of war, but…" caressing his cheek, she strengthened her powerful gaze, "By those who choose to be so cruel to others that they corrupt the truth of beauty. You view yourself through such a dirtied lens, it's awful how you see yourself at times. It's wrong, and whatever filled your head with those lies is wrong as well. You don't have to listen to a word that I say, but please know that I care. About you, your art, your happiness." Her eyes brightened as a stunning smile formed on her face. "You've brought me so far and gave me so much that if I gave nothing in return, it would be selfish of me. If there is anything that I can do for you, simply ask me, and I will give all I can to help you. I care for you."

His model was many things. Beautiful, intelligent, a preformer, a liar. Yes, the skill of putting in a mask for the enjoyment of others was quite a gift. He had seen her play many characters, all different in their own way. Her acting outshined her natural beauty in many ways, she immersed herself with the new personality and made it her identity. At times he could barely tell if she was wearing a mask or showing her true colors. But now, looking deep into her emerald eyes, he could see the raw emotion within her was truth. There was a peculiar glint in her eyes that could not be created by the trick of the light. It was the spark of her soul.

"Emily... you're too kind to me. It's unexpected, but your kindness is welcomed. You truly do have a way with words. I know you care, and I want you to know I treasure you as well." his gloved hand came up to hold her own; he could feel her warmth through his glove. "You truly are beautiful inside and out." A rosy blush painted her cheeks, and she gleamed. He rarely allowed anyone to touch him for so long, he should have battered her hand away a long time. She was an exception. He let her touch him, run gentle hands through his hair, he even let her soft lips tenderly caress his scarred cheek. He let her because her soft touch would soon be a lovely memory. Walking back off the set, he could see the gleam of his dagger hiding in the darkness, untouched and thirsting to create. He readjusts the lens of his camera as his model, soon to be masterpiece, took her pose in all her raw beauty. He grinned behind the lens of his camera.

"Smile for the camera." The camera flashed as he took her final picture as a soulful body.

That had been years ago.

He still remembered every piece of her and the masterpiece he created with her essence. So, well he did, he was able to recreate the scene with such ease. A thought, a wave of his hand, and the room was set correctly. The elegant blue dress, the vibrant green emerald, and the bouquet of crimson roses all came together in a simple puzzle if one were to take time to appreciate the photograph on the wall. Her face was made to be unrecognizable; it still captured her beauty in art. Though there was one detail he felt off about the scene, it only stood out to him during his final overlook of the setting. An element that was not supposed to be but laid elegantly next to the charming roses. A simple photograph, a photograph where ocean green eyes stared back at him unblinking. He froze for a moment at the sight of it, before grabbing it from its place on the dresser.

It did not take him long to rip it apart to measly shreds and discard its remains. He would need to regain his bearings; the CORE herself granted him so much power that he was beginning to create more than what was required. It wasn't too troublesome; he would learn sooner rather than later on how to control the power granted to him. After all, it would not be long before his guest arrived. A man who would play a part in his performance. He had set the stage now; it was time for the show to begin. He looked back up at the picture of his model. Hopefully, the man would play his part as a damaged man, finally coming to peace with a dagger to the heart and a camera capturing the final flash of live across his eyes. Though, he knew, the man was only a candle's flame compared to the brilliant blaze of his model. She had never broken character, and by God, she had played her part beautifully until the end. Emily indeed was the best actress and his most inspiring masterpiece.

Φ

The array of colorful pills laid before him on the table. He had not organized them yet; he would have if it were not for the slight tick that caught his eye. The red pills were a different shade than usual, still being bright in hue, but there was a dark undertone to his shine that it appeared more of a maroon than vermillion. It was off-putting for many reasons. It was an ugly hue, to begin with, and it contrasted greatly with the other colors, but the most troubling being... Maybe it had always been that color. He compared the hues in his head, and sure enough, they were different shades of the same color. There was no doubt in his mind there was a difference, it worried him when it shouldn't have had. He knew his truths and fallacies and held firm to his beliefs. But what if his revelations were disconnected with reality? No, that had to be impossible. He was never taught any wrongs; therefore, he could know no wrong. They were the ones that corrupted his truths. They were sick things spreading their disease to anything they could grasp with their disgusting claws. They would not fool him, though. He would make certain of it.

"Why aren't you taking your medicine, Mr. Valentini?" The voice concerned yet nervous in its tone pulled his gaze from his medicine to the orderly. He couldn't force his lips into a smile.

"Mr. Carpenter, may I ask you a question?" He said, his voice hollow with a distant gaze.

"Of course, what is it?" He was silent for a moment, unsure of his actions. Regaurdless, he presented his arms to the orderly, pale and unmarked.

"What's wrong with them?" He asked, staring intently for the slightest reaction of the orderly. It was not like reading an open book, but instead watching pictures in a slide show as the story itself unfolded. A moment of confusion started the reaction, followed by a hint of doubt, before a smile of reassurance took over the expression. The eyes told a different story, they always did.

"Nothing, at all. We may need to trim those nails later in the week, but besides that, everything looks perfectly fine with you." Nearly a believable performance, he wanted to believe in it, but he could not help but hold onto doubt. He had to in a place like this, a sick twisted place like this.

"Thank you for your observation. I question my own thoughts at times." Forcing a grin, he turned back to his medication and began to rearrange them. He wondered if death would be a better existence than being locked up in this hellscape, he would eventually lose himself. In the end, he decided death could never be the lesser of the two evils. Nothing could be created after his death. Death could only be captured in his art as a memory to be reminisced, never to be lived again. No, he wouldn't die as a fading memory to be mocked whenever remembered. He would never end; his art would never end. If he must give part of his sanity so he may continue to live on, then so be it. For what could be worse than death?