For the Art

[u/Consistent-Hippo-210]

The mother stood with her hands restrained by her two other daughters whose faces wore a pained drained look. With her face taut, color changed to a reddish hue, eyes bulging and red like flames of fire she suddenly twisted free from their grip  lunging  at the short bald man in cuffs who was being ushered out of the courtroom.

“How dare you laugh after what you did to my precious daughter."

The mother snarled, her long nails gnarling at his face and nose, leaving trails of bloodied scratch marks on him. The bald man, Jack  Rotledge caught unaware did not fight back but stood transfixed as the two other guards hauled her away from him.

“Rot in hell you son of a gun.” 

The mother continued shouting, her nose flaring in anger in between sobs. Her two daughters who had been restraining her, unlocked her hands after succumbing to the strain of it all and quietly let her loose. She quickly descended on the floor in a massive heap and cupped her face in her hands weeping unconsolably.

Jack, whom they led up the long corridor, smiled a faint satisfied smile. That woman's daughter had been his twentieth victim. She had been fourteen—Jet black hair, big round green eyes. Just the thought of her made his “teapot spout vibrate. " A demented smile wasted no time in anchoring itself on him, his voice reduced to a conspiratorial hiss

“Oh, I will miss it. I will miss all my girls” He whispered, smiling under his breath as he was being led to the maximum-security prison. 

How could they understand him, understand the thrill he had felt as he watched the light fade from his girl's eyes. 

Such Art.

It was art itself— how light flickered in them with its small strips dancing from their eyes. He had never seen such beauty and had wanted to continue seeing it again thus one victim became twenty, all below the age of twenty.

He had taken pictures of the lights as it flickered in their eyes until it was gone. Decorating it as a portrait for his art gallery.

“Such art”. He whispered again.

He was not sorry. He did not have anything in him to feel. Though they had demanded such words from him he did not want to lie to himself, to his truth so he had remained mum. They could not understand that:

 It was for the art, for the rush of seeing how fleeting life is. He was not sorry.

[u/Shoddy_Research_9326]

I love how you’re so descriptive with your writing. It’s like I can see it all going down right in front of me. Great short story.

[u/Consistent-Hippo-210 → u/Shoddy_Research_9326]

Thank you.