Broken Glass and Skin

There is something magical with broken glass and skin - both are fragile and needs extra care to handle, yet both give extreme satisfaction when being broken, at least to the culprit's point of view. Extreme satisfaction that it became his addiction, a secret he'd die rather than tell anyone. Beautiful - he thought while holding the broken glass against the lights. And it will only get better once it kissed the skin he spent hours scrubbing in the bathroom earlier. He is so meticulous with his art - making sure the skin is as flawless as it can be before it gets contact with one of his too many broken glass he had collected for the past 2 years. Each glass tells a different story, and he makes sure that each story would fit the skin it will be paired to until they become one.

He winced when the glass touched the flawless skin - he had done this a lot of times he had lost count and yet he will always wince as if it's the first time. He sighed in satisfaction when he saw the red liquid coming out of the cut he made. Another masterpiece - he muttered while rubbing his sex. A renewed energy filled him in as the skin looked pale with the amount of blood it lost. His mind drifted to euphoria as he aggressively motioned his hand up and down his sex while the other stabs the skin over and over - so hard that the glass cut his own palm but he couldn’t care less. This is where he and his subject becomes one, and as he came breathlessly, he knows that it is another job well done. His master would have been so proud if the idiot was not a total pussy when he introduced this new addiction.

The guy taught him how cutting skin gives more pleasure than having actual sex. Higher than sex, pain is the most intimate thing in the world. You don't give others the pleasure to see it through you, and that's something you know only you can own. He remembers him saying. But then the guy was only brave to cut his own skin, leaving ugly marks that he doesn't want to have. Why would he cut himself when he could cut others, right? But when he brought the idea to his mentor, the guy laughed at him as if he was losing his mind, telling him that it was a ridiculous idea and threatened that he will go to the authorities if he insisted of doing this. But before the guy could position himself for defense, he had already slit his neck with the glass he broke while they were fighting. That was his first broken glass, and he was his first masterpiece. Two years and countless necks slit, he is so damn sure that he had done the right thing. His mentor would always say he was a fast learner - too bad for him that his student was too fast that he did not even saw that coming.

He was not proud of his first masterpiece though - the guy could not be compared to his other subjects. He wanted pain, but he's not fully committed to experience it. His other subjects were all brave and determined - they know exactly what they wanted and are often throwing themselves to him to be his next subject. Contrary to what the media says, he is not a serial killer who mindlessly choose whose neck to slit the next day. He's an artist, and his masterpieces are all from willing subjects - lonely souls who wanted to end their lives but does not have the courage to do it themselves, or just lost souls seeking for true happiness and eternal peace. He is giving them a favor - a gift, as he would often put it - to experience the highest form of pleasure and become one with peace, while they give him the favor of experiencing euphoria with cutting skin. It's a type of service that does not equate to any amount, and he was too good at his craft that he became an instant celebrity after five of his first masterpieces were delivered to their families and friends, with one that was delivered to the police station - all cleaned and carefully zipped into a body bag, completed with the goodbye notes his subjects personally wrote before the act.

He looked at his recent subject softly and kissed her forehead. She was the most special of them all as he had been in contact with her for the past 6 months. They would often go out on discreet dinner dates and even slept with her on several occasions. She was the only person (aside from his mentor) he had brought to his flat outside the city where he creates his art and came back still breathing. She even recruited some people to be his subject, and had the opportunity to watch him while he do his work. She would often tell him her ideas of life and peace, about her struggles on keeping up with her own mind, and how much she wanted to be normal. Why would you want to be normal when you are already extraordinary? You are special - fuck them if they don't get that. He told her while they were in bed, his eyes not leaving hers and he was positive that he saw something in her eyes that night. It made her face glow and her eyes soft as she slowly leaned towards him for another round. Everything seems to change after that night - she would come to his flat unannounced, and would insist on helping him with creating art.  He would be mad at her and he will not hear from her for days, but then she'll come back - she always comes back - and stick with him like a lost puppy that it makes him sick to his stomach sometimes. But then when she's not around, he feels something is missing and could not find the energy to start another masterpiece until she comes back. She always comes back.

It was so hard to keep up with her that he almost gave up when finally, she made up her mind and called him last night. He had never experienced this kind of excitement for the past two years, and he made sure that everything will be perfect. He even set up a dinner table that night and had the most amazing sex with her afterwards. She wore a beautiful white dress and kept her hair up - for easy access, she teased - and he was sure that she is the most amazing art he had laid his eyes on that it almost hurt him to think that it's going to be their last night.  He gave him her last drink when she was ready and she smiled at him as she held her glass - the one she bought for this special occasion 6 months ago. Thank you for helping me find my purpose, my peace. I'm happy to know that I can give you the most precious gift that I know I won't give to anyone else. Don't forget me. She whispered as she kissed him lightly that it made him crave for more. He almost pulled her closer to him so he could kiss her harder, just to experience the taste of her lips before she became a cold piece of meat, but she had already pulled away and drank her vodka mixed with special k. She lay down, not closing her eyes and waited patiently for the drugs to kick in while all he can do is watch as his most favorite muse lost control of her senses. She is so fucking perfect that he wanted to engrave the memory of her and this moment in his mind but knows that he needs to fulfill his duty as a servant of art.

He carefully washed her and made sure she's all clean before putting her body in a bag. He put her love note on top of the body and was about to close the bag when he noticed his name written on the paper. It was not a surprise to him though, she made it too obvious to him that he became her world for the past 6 months. Understanding is an art, and not everyone is an artist like you. Thank you for making me feel whole, and I hope I did the same to you. Don't forget me. He felt something in his heart that he chose to ignore. Damn it! Even her handwriting looks perfect to him that he did not notice the tears escaping from his eyes. He put the love note inside the bag and closed it. He quickly rearranged the furniture in his art room and grabbed a shovel. He will do as she wanted it to be. That was his job anyway - to fulfill whatever request his subject will ask him. She doesn't want to leave the place where she found her peace and purpose, and he knows that he doesn't want to give her away anyway. She is his most prized masterpiece. She is his, and no one will take her away from him.

Everything was normal the next day - he returned to his work in the city and resumed to his too normal life. He always gives himself a vacation after doing a masterpiece, but this time is different. He usually would enjoy his vacation as doing art often worn him out. He couldn't put a finger on what exactly is bothering him. He was always anxious and could not wait to end the day. He would find himself driving back to his flat outside the city after work where he will see her waiting for him, wearing the same white dress. She would smile at him softly and he will come back to the city with a lighter heart, knowing that she will be there when he comes back. He always comes back.

When someone was lonely and had skeletons haunting them, free time was the most volatile thing in the world. Weeks passed without doing another art as he consumed himself with thoughts of her - of how he will find her smiling sweetly at him as he opened the door of his art room, and how he would dig her up the ground just to make love with her every night, that he needed to remove the worms slowly eating her meat at one point. He had failed to notice the changes in his own behavior, and how he had recklessly changed the pattern he had mastered for 2 years. His colleagues were a different story though. They notice everything - how he had failed to shave his well-kept beard, how he always looked distracted and disconnected to the world, how he seem to smell like a decaying rat during the day, and how he would almost fly out of the office every after shift without any word. Rumors had spread that he is doing drugs and is slowly losing his mind due to his addiction. All he does is laugh at their assumptions. He may be losing his mind, but definitely not because of drugs. What they are seeing is just the surface - they will never understand what's happening underneath. She's the only one who knows, who understands. He shivered as realization hit him and dashed out of his office to go back to her. He needs to see her; she needs to know.

Panic consumed him as he opened his art room door and did not find her sitting where she had always been. He shouted for her name and was answered by silence. He quickly dug her makeshift grave with his bare hands, desperately praying he'd find her. Tears and sweat filled his face when he came face to face with the corpse he'd been hiding. He was beyond disappointed when he realized that it was not the same lady he had been making love for the past weeks. Heart filled with disappointment and anger, he destroyed everything in sight while shouting her name over and over until he noticed his reflection in the mirror and was shocked to see the person staring back at him. Who are you? He asked, half-whispered, as if he's too afraid that the other person would answer. The man in the mirror continued to stare at him, tracing every detail on his face. He was covered with mud, sweat and tears, with long, ugly facial hair that made him look beyond recognition. He slammed his fist on the mirror again and again, ignoring the broken glass cutting through his fist. He tiredly sat on the ground and looked at the man in the broken mirror and felt nothing. It was as if he doesn't even exist in this world. Why am I even here? He does not know the answer to that question, but there's one thing he's sure of: He knows where he needs to be, where he is supposed to be. He needs to be with her.

Pride and determination filled him in as he stood on a stool in the middle of his art room. This is going to be his last masterpiece so this should be the grandest of them all. His eyes soften as he traced his tool with his fingers. He spent the whole night making the perfect art tool for his grandest masterpiece - a rope embedded with all the broken glass he had used in his art for the last 2 years; the glasses he used to slit the neck of his mentor, the lady who lives next door, of the famous politician who stole millions of public funds, of the homeless man whose body he had sent to the police station, the glass he used to slit the neck of the woman he loves, only to realize it after, and many more. He was crying as he touched the glasses one by one, as if he was seeing all the different faces he had ended. He had finally come face to face with his peace. Finally.

There is something magical with broken glass and skin - it's the same magic that captured him in this bloody world in pursuit of true happiness, and the same magic that will free him from being a murdering machine. He put the rope around his neck, heart full of glee. This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you. He stopped when he heard her voice and was shocked to see her standing below him, wearing her white dress stained with blood, and her body covered with mud. But to his eyes, he's still the same beautiful woman who had listened to all his stories, and stick with him till the end. Until the end. She held her hand to him, and without second thought, he reached for it, jumping in the process. As the broken glasses kissed his neck, the artist found himself holding his favorite muse. Finally, he had found his happiness. After all.