An artist at work (e i g h t - Tanakalian)

[Tanakalian]

@e i g h t
-----------------------------

After he had rolled his cigarette and lit the heavy roll-your-own tobacco, he looked at the two young girls at the other end of the small room. One bound and slumped on a chair, the other bound and dumped on the floor, both were still unconscious, but one would certainly be getting by. Perhaps the sting of his tobacco would bring either of them by. It was quiet outside the small shed deep in the woods, only an owl hooted a cry, but even they were quite a way away. Even when he had brought the two girls into this shed, a few hours ago, the light had been sparse, but now it was nearly ink-black inside. Only the contours of the two girls were visible.

He called them girls, but they weren’t school girls anymore. Nineteen, twenty, something in that region, still young, compared to him. It was a long time ago he had thought about his age. He lived, he kept breathing, sometimes he felt younger, and on other times he felt the weight of his age on his shoulders. Not that he was really old, he wasn’t ancient. But he was definitely a lot older than the two girls he had taken and brought here to this shed.

It really had been a chance meeting, the two girls hiding behind a building, kissing each other and one of the two constantly looking over the shoulder of the other. As if it would be shameful to be caught kissing another person and that other person be of the same sex on top of that. But they had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, those two girls. Had it not been them, it would have been another one, or two. But it was them and within seconds they were unconscious. Each a knock and they were out of it. The hardest part had been to get them from behind that building to this shed. Not a great distance, as the bird would fly, but one didn’t go about carrying two unconscious girls under their arms.

He had arrived in the town a few days ago, travelling with the railroad, having worked some locomotives for five months. He arrived with a good roll of money in his pocket and a bag full of new tools. But spending his money on a hotel was something he had never understood, and he had looked for a shed or a cabin. He had found this place, where he put his bag, took his money and went on a two-day drinking session. His pockets were empty when he got thrown out of the last bar, and he had a craving to fulfill.

He was a man of habits, this lone man, he had left his parents at an age where most boys were looking forward to meeting their first girlfriend, sick and tired of years of mental abuse, of not fulfilling the dreams of his mother. He wasn’t the type to run the tracks or basketball field, despite his length. He liked to do puzzles and read books, but in the small town he lived a boy doing such things must be queer. When he felt strong enough he attacked his mother and left her for dead, taking enough money and he disappeared.

He worked some time here, and then a while there, and when he had earned enough money, or his bones got restless, he quit his job, took his money and went on a drinking trip. And every time he had spent his last dollar, he had an urge for a girl. Not before, not during, only after. And he took what he wanted and did with them as he saw fit. To hurt a girl was a work of art, true art, to leave them traumatized for the rest of their lives a form of beauty. To alter their futures a thing not many people were capable of doing.

He had lost count of the amount of girls, he had forgotten their faces. He was good at his work and when the work was done, he became a successful artist. He created a new girl, he took away life and gave life, without making a heart stop beating. He had never killed a girl, they all lived when he was done with them, when he walked away and disappeared from their lives. Just like he had disappeared from his mother’s life, although she had never been so lucky to have been worked his art on herself.

He was a man of habits, the moment he went on a drinking spree, he had had a good haircut, his beard would have been shaved off, his clothes washed. A man like many others, albeit a tall man. But not a man who stood out, with his dark blonde hair and dark blue eyes, his black jeans, a dark blue hoodie and a black coat. He had never been a man people would remember, one of those non-descript people police would never think of when a crime was committed, and never a man a girl would see as a threat when he walked into view, when they were kissing a girl nobody knew of.

The light faded some more, but there was no sign either of the girls were regaining conscious. He was happy he had picked up a few bottles of some strong slivovitz, and had put them in the shed before he went on his drinking spree. He knew himself by now, his money would be gone, but he had to wait a while for a girl, and in this case two, to wake up. He had long made his mind up, what to do with the both of them and he had a new set of tools to try out, but he wanted to see how they would act and react. It would be fun, a lot of fun, for him. And perhaps they would enjoy and appreciate the work of art he would perform on their bodies. How they would be altered into someone completely new.

 

[e i g h t]

When Adelina had first met Yasmine, the two didn't get along. Granted they were six years old and their mother's had proclaimed how they would yell at one another if they even so much as touched one of the others toys, but, alas they eventually grew to like one another. Even going so far as to becoming best friends. Her mother had told her it was inevitable, how the two couldn't live without one another, even when they hated each other.

It was admirable, really. How such a love blossomed from hatred - words which became even more of a reality a few years down the line. By the time they were sixteen years old, Yasmine had come out. Everyone was supportive, of course. At least, those that mattered were. People in school? Not so much. Yasmine became the topic of everybody's conversations, getting the brunt of their verbal hits and sometimes physical jabs. Of course, Adelina was quick to jump to her aid, she didn't care what her best friends sexuality was after all.

Until her eighteenth birthday.

It was the night of her own fucking birthday bash that Jace had broken up with her. They had been dating for almost three years, and out of nowhere, he finished them. He didn't care for her anymore, he didn't want her anymore. Fuck she was a mess, so much so that she drowned her sorrows in shots of vodka until she could barely fucking stand. Of course Yasmine being her perfect self, hadn't let the blonde suffer alone.

That night they had shared their first drunken kiss. The first kiss of many, granted they were all hidden. Adelina wasn't ready to admit that she liked both men and women, and thankfully, Yasmine accepted that.

---

By the time Adelina's eyes finally fluttered open, it had to of been hours since they were taken. Either that or it was a very long blink. A soft groan emitted from her lips, one that had her wrists tugging in an attempt to rub at her eyes.

Until she realized she couldn't move her arms.

What the fuck?

The blonde blew out a gentle huff, gaze flickering towards her wrists - which were bound to a chair. Panic clawed at her chest, bile rising up her throat in an effort to push past her lips. She swallowed, brown hues finally landing on the figure a little ways away. A figure who looked awfully familiar.

She paled.

"Yasmine?" She breathed, gaze trailing the rope that bound her best friend, ensuring she wouldn't be running free any time soon. The brunette wasn't awake yet, And Adelina selfishly hoped she never would be. Not if this was her fate, whatever this fate was.

 

[Tanakalian]

He inhaled sharply, as one of the two spoke. It was the blonde who spoke, and she called the brunette ‘Yasmine’. One name, two girls, one awake, the other not. He was on his third roll-your-own now, but this one would be finished soon again. He nearly burnt his fingers with that last sharp inhale. ‘Fuck’ he uttered, throwing the stub down and with his shoes putting the stub’s fire out. ‘So she’s called Yasmine, nice name, suitable for a brunette. I mean, a blonde girl like yourself would never be called Yasmine, you’re more an Ellen or Mary or Sophie’. He grinned softly, taking a step closer to the girl who had spoken. ‘Or bitch or cunt’. He laughed softly.

‘Or perhaps scaredy cat? Kitten? You’re the one who kept looking about when you were kissing her. What is it? She’s come out and you haven’t? Or is it that you’re a whore and you don’t want to let her know?’ He laughed again, this time louder. A loud and vibrant laugh. He had a bass baritone sounding voice, deep and pleasant. Once, a while ago, during a drinking spree, he had been told he had a real singing voice. Join a choir, they said. Sing, have fun. Fun he had when he put a knife in skin, to change the course of blood-flow, singing? His mother had sang, but she had sounded like a wet cat on a hot tin roof.

He kneeled down, where he knew his tool bag was, slowly opening it, the click heard, perhaps even waking Yasmine up and he rummaged a little in between his new tools. He needed a pair of pliers and a pair of scissors, which he found quickly, but he also took a large hunting knife out of the bag. The knife was the only took in the bag which wasn’t new, he had owned it for some thirty years, a gift from one of the first girls he hang out with. It was his most valued possession and the knife had given him pleasure beyond imagination. Its blade was razor-sharp, a little over twenty-five centimeters long, with two cutting edges. The top of the blade was straight for pure cutting, and for leaving no marks on a wound. The bottom was jagged, perfect for cutting fabric and bones. The rougher cutting so to speak.

‘I’m not going to introduce myself just yet, I’ll wait with that until Yasmine here has woken up as well. It seems I hit her harder than I had meant, the whole plan was for the two of you to regain consciousness at the same time. I do apologize, it means you have to wait a little bit longer before the fun starts’. He silently took the few steps between his position and where the blonde was tied to the chair. What little moon-light entered the shed, it reflected on the blade of the hunting knife in his hand. A small flash of light, not even a second, but just enough to be seen. ‘But I will start my preparations with you’. He kneeled down, but without touching her once, he slid the knife through the fabric of her clothing, making four or five larger cuts, before getting up and walking back to his original position.

‘I do hope the both of you have got plenty of time, not all too much appointments planned, because I fear I am going to take a while with you girls. And a little secret, just between you and me, don’t tell your friend Yasmine when she wakes up, but I am not going to kill you girls. You’ll live to tell the tale. You also really shouldn’t… damn, I’m talking too much…’ He grinned, opened one of the bottles of slivovitz and took a big sip straight out of the bottle. After taking a second sip, he put the bottle down, took his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and rolled himself another cigarette, lighting it and taking a big draw of the strong tobacco.

‘What do you think? Do you want me to tell a story? To kill the time we’re waiting for dear Yasmine here to wake up? Would you like to hear about any of the other girls I had my pleasure with? Will it set your mind at ease knowing there’s been over forty before you pair? And that I killed none of them? Who knows, there might even be a support-group somewhere’. Again he laughed his vibrant laugh. By now it was too dark to see the expression in the eyes of the blonde girl, and he wondered if she’d believe his words of not killing her or her friend. But he always spoke the truth about that. Killing was too easy, he had found that out in his youth, with the animals he had practiced on.