Becker stood in the doorway, her presence a shock to my senses, a
break in the carefully constructed reality I had so meticulously
curated. Time slowed as I looked at her, standing there frozen, her
eyes wide, lips parted as though she couldn't quite process what
she was seeing. The silence that followed was oppressive, the air
thick with tension, as if the very room was holding its breath,
waiting for something to snap.
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to speak—explain, lie, do
anything—but the words wouldn't come. My mouth was dry, like a
desert, and every attempt to utter a sound felt like it was being
strangled before it could escape. The only noise in the room was
Becker's breath, shallow and erratic, as if she too were struggling
to understand what was happening.
She didn't move, not at first. She just stood there, staring at me, at
the body, at the painting. I could see the shock in her eyes, the
disbelief, as if the pieces of the scene in front of her couldn't
possibly be fitting together. And yet, they were.
I could see her trying to process it—trying to piece together what
she was seeing. My mind spun with a hundred possible reactions,
each one more desperate than the last. How could I explain this?
How could I tell her this wasn't just a crime? This was art. This
was my art.
"Why?" Becker's voice was barely a whisper, coming out shaky,
unsure. It was more than just a question—it was a crack in her
perception, a small opening where the reality of what she was
witnessing was slowly sinking in.
I tried to speak. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The
air felt thick, like I was choking on it. My fingers itched, but not
from the paint. Not from the excitement of the creation. No, they
itched with the overwhelming need to explain myself, to tell her
that this wasn't just something I did—it was who I was. But I
couldn't. I couldn't find the words to make her understand.
She took a small step back, her gaze flickering from the body to
the painting, back to me. There was fear in her eyes now, a flicker
of something darker, something more visceral than the shock that
had first overtaken her. This wasn't just fear of what she was
seeing—it was fear of me, of what I had become.
The air between us was charged, the weight of her gaze almost
suffocating. Her voice trembled, breaking through the silence once
more, but this time it wasn't a question—it was an accusation, a
realization that she couldn't ignore.
"How many?" Becker's words hung in the air, the question not
fully formed but clear nonetheless. "How many others have you
done this to?"
I flinched at the words, at the rawness in her tone. It wasn't just
her confusion anymore—it was her horror, her need to know. She
needed the truth, even though she wasn't ready for it. And part of
me knew that I could never give it to her. Not in a way she could
understand. Not in a way she could accept.
I took a slow, deliberate step toward her, my eyes never leaving
hers. "Becker..." My voice came out hoarse, almost desperate. But
she didn't move. She just kept looking at me, her face hardening
with every passing second. She didn't say anything, but I saw it in
her—her mind was racing, piecing everything together. She was
finally seeing me. Really seeing me.
I wanted to touch her, to make her understand that this wasn't just
some twisted game. I wanted to pull her into my world, to show
her that there was beauty in what I did. But she wasn't looking at
me like she used to. She wasn't looking at me with fascination or
curiosity. She wasn't looking at me with trust.
Becker shook her head slowly, almost like she was trying to rid
herself of the image of the body, of the blood splattered across the
canvas. She couldn't shake it. I could see her struggling. Her chest
rose and fell rapidly, her breath shallow, unsteady.
"What are you doing, really doing?" she asked, her voice trembling,
but with a firmness that shocked me. "What the hell is this?"
Her eyes glinted with something I hadn't seen before—something
raw, something that was starting to crack. She wasn't just afraid
anymore. She was angry. Angry at me, angry at the person she
thought I was, angry at the reality I had just forced her to face.
She took another step back, her feet unsteady on the floor, but she
wasn't leaving. Not yet. She was standing her ground, trying to
make sense of what she had just walked in on. "What did you do?"
I opened my mouth again, but the words were stuck. I couldn't
explain it to her. She couldn't possibly understand. I wanted to tell
her that it wasn't just murder—it was the culmination of
everything I had ever wanted. I wanted to tell her that this was my
calling, my art. That the blood, the death—it was what gave me
purpose. But the words were stuck in my throat, and the more I
tried to speak, the further I felt from her.
Becker's hands were shaking now, barely noticeable at first but
growing more pronounced as she struggled to control herself. Her
lips trembled, but she said nothing. She didn't have to. I could hear
everything in the silence between us.
Her eyes flickered between the body and the painting, her face
twisting in a way that made my stomach churn. I thought she
would turn and leave, but she didn't. She stood there, confronting
me in a way that no one else ever had. Her anger was palpable
now, and I knew that this was the breaking point. She couldn't
look at me the same way anymore.
Her eyes turned hard, cold. "Tell me this isn't real," she demanded,
her voice low and trembling with a combination of fear and
something else—something darker. "Tell me you didn't just kill
someone. Tell me this isn't you."
I wanted to reach for her. I wanted to pull her back, to make her
see the truth, to show her that I wasn't a monster, that this was
what I had to do. But the distance between us had already grown
too wide.
"Becker," I whispered, taking another step forward, but she
flinched. It was the first time I had seen her flinch, and it felt like a
knife had pierced through me. "You don't understand. This is who
I am. This is who I've always been. You can't... you can't expect
me to just stop. You don't know what it's like."
She didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her eyes were enough. I
saw the tears that threatened to spill over, the anger that was
starting to boil inside her, and the unmistakable feeling of betrayal.
Becker wiped at her eyes quickly, as if she didn't want me to see
how close she was to breaking. "No," she whispered, her voice
barely audible, but firm. "No, you don't get to do this. Not to me.
Not like this."
I wanted to explain myself, but I didn't know how. I wanted her to
understand, but I knew she never would. The truth had shattered
something between us, and I was too far gone to fix it. Too far
gone to make her see me the way she once had.
"What are you going to do with me now?" Becker asked, her voice
quiet but sharp. There was something final in her tone, something
I couldn't ignore.
I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know what to say. The idea
of losing her—of her turning away from me—was too much to
bear. But I knew deep down that it had already happened. She had
already made her decision.
"I won't say anything," she continued, her voice steady despite the
tremble in her hands. "I won't tell anyone. But you need to leave.
You need to get out."
Her words stung. They cut deeper than anything else. But they
were also a gift—she was offering me a way out, a chance to leave
before it was too late. I could take it, walk away from this, and
never look back.
But I couldn't.
Because I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. And
the fear in her eyes—fear that I had created—was the only truth
that remained.