This is a story inspired by Cormac and Nicole's "Icarus Flight to Perfection" fiction challenge. Hope you like it:
Up Close and Personal
They always get sloppy. Always.
It’s just not possible to be vigilant all the time, to remain hyper-aware, to sleep with one eye open. There’s always a place where even the most paranoid feel safe. If they go there, I will find them. And if I find them, there will be blood.
I will kill them quietly and efficiently. I will use a knife and I will leave the weapon behind. It is the way I sign my masterpieces. Yes, I consider myself an artist. Where Rembrandt painted with oils and pigments, I paint in blood and pain.
When my prey is frightened, his aura changes color. Rage changes the color too, and so does despair. By the time I am finished with my work, I will have seen the whole spectrum of human emotion spilled out onto my canvas. Pain is a sunset color, an amalgam of orange and pink seldom seen in the physical world, except perhaps in the petals of a perfect rose.
The pain is important, but so is the blood. When it first flows, it is shockingly hot, spilling across my flesh with the heat of a summer sun. As it chills and thickens, I rub it into my skin as it if were some exotic lotion. As it dries, it leaves pigment behind, the stain of life ended. Blood. I revel in it. I wallow in it. I immerse myself in it.
The only way to get that quantity of blood is to use a knife. And that’s why I don’t own a gun.