The Artist
In the hands of the Artist every death is a piece of art.
by Christopher Michael Blake
Take this person below me. Her body shakes, and her breathing borders on hysterical as I lean over to inspect her. The gag in her mouth acts as a muzzle, preventing her from screaming while restraints hold her down. I run a clamshell dagger over her body, and she trembles as the sweat drips off her body.
I am about to make her perfect.
Has she lived a fulfilling life? Is she a good person? Does she deserve to die? I don’t ask myself these questions. My only concern is the art we will make together. She will be my vessel, allowing me to express my artistic intuition.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” I lie as I pull the lever on the side of the metallic gurney. The makeshift hospital bed rises, allowing my muse to take in all the artwork in my antechamber. The lift is open underneath her, exposing her backside. She becomes frantic, tugging on the bindings from her wrist as she squeals while taking in the displays from my past works. A legacy of human bone work pieced together from other contributors.
A three-story-high scaffold meets the top of the abstract skeleton of the deity I am creating. I call him The Devourer. Six years of work, using human skulls for the face. Thigh and leg bones make up his arms. Human vertebrae are shaped, curved, and molded to form his ostentatious wings. Underneath this is a beacon of light ignited by a large kiln, which brings The Devourer to life.
I can no longer tell what frightens her more, my art or me. This is the moment I have been waiting for, the height of her anxiety—the moment where she is most distressed. Her agony will live on in the art I will create. I will waste nothing, not even her pain.
Using the clamshell dagger, I tear open her back. She howls in pain as I expose her insides. Her blood runs into a vat under the floor. I will mix her with a sealant and sell it to other artists for an obscene amount.
I waste nothing.
Shifting the clamshell weapon in my hand, I break open her ribs one by one. They crack like walnut shells when they snap. She is not dead, but she is done fighting and limply hangs from the restraints. I reach inside her backside and delicately remove her lungs and fling them over her shoulders. The Norse Vikings referred to this as the blood eagle. From here, I can remove her organs, beginning with her liver and kidneys, before moving on to her lungs and heart.
I place her organs into coolers already labeled and packed with ice. In an hour, someone will come and pick them up. A sum of money will be deposited into my account.
Using an electric razor, I shave her head. The strands of hair fall into a bucket at her feet. Later, I will bind her hair and use it to make high-priced paintbrushes, falsely labeled as horsehair, and sell them on the internet.
Taking up the clamshell dagger once more, I lift open her eyelids and cut the eyeballs out from their sockets. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue, which, when frozen in ice and wrapped in a plastic casing, would make an excellent pair of dice.
Wheeling the standup gurney to the belly of The Devourer, I turn up the heat in the furnace kiln. The Devourer roars as smoke protrudes from the countless sets of empty skulls and eyes. As the temperature in the oven increases, I cut her wrist bands as she falls limply to my feet. Putting on my flame-retardant gloves, I lift her body using a set of large metal pincers and place it in the kiln.
Inside the oven is a significant work of metallic pipes, leading out into a makeshift set of chemistry beakers. As her skin melts inside the stove, the leftover residue drips into a square-shaped tray. The fats and oils secreted through those tubes will yield approximately forty bars of all-natural and labeled as vegan soap.
I waste nothing, not even her ugly parts.
After her skin melts away, and the bones remain, I set about polishing them, removing excess cartilage that didn’t burn off and wiping away any odd scuffing.
Everything must be perfect.
The Devourer deserves nothing less.
Finally, when I lift her skull, she thanks me. She tells me she is honored to become part of such a grandiose work of art. She whispers that with her passing, she has accomplished something she could never have become in life. She appreciates that every part of her being has a purpose, and for the first time, she is useful.
I place her skull where she tells me. She chooses a dignified position on the left side of The Devourer’s cranium. After descending the scaffolding, I step back and take in the enormity of this project. It’s the artist in me, taking pride in another job well done. That’s when I hear all of their voices—asking me, begging me, pleading with me to continue sharing my work and bring them more martyrs. And letting The Devourer consume more souls.
The Artist is a story about a serial killer who puts every piece of his victim to use in his latest sculpture.
Christopher Michael Blake is the author of seven novels, including Midnight Macabre, and is the screenwriter for the movie Crimzon Harvest. He resides on the Jersey shore with his family.