To my surprise, it did not touch me. The sickened man with the beautifully twisted eyes had simply severed the rough rope that’d shackled me to the bench so that it hung, swinging like a hangman’s noose from my thin pale wrist. I hurriedly jerked upright, allowing the thin ivory cloth that’d covered me to flutter to the wooden floor. It was at this point that I noticed that the room that stood imperiously around me had no windows. Indeed, it was simply a low-ceilinged structure of four this soundproof walls.
How could I ever escape?
There must be a way out: there is always a way out. “Whatever is the matter, Pretty Girl?” He smiled bemused. Ignoring him, I said, “Who are you?” Rather more loudly than I had intended. Unfortunately, my tone had allowed him to reassure himself that I was indeed scared of him and of the predicament I found myself in. This, of course was the case: I was utterly mortified and terrified beyond belief, but I had not wished to allow him comfort in this knowledge, that was my little fragment of power in this situation and I would not let him have it. I was determined of that. “I am an artist, Pretty Girl, some call me a killer; some, a madman; some even a scientist. But no, I am decidedly an artist, Pretty Girl.” He smoothly hissed his words with a low arrogance, so his sentences seemed to slither their way through my brain as some great dark adder weaving their way into the furthest depths of my subconscious. “What does that mean?” I mimicked his soft tone in an attempt to panic him “It means I make art, Pretty Girl, I make art from life; flesh, my canvas and blood my media. Life imitates art; did you know that, Pretty Girl?” He whispered proudly. I stared at him both inspired and sickened by his words. “Do you have a name?” I said abruptly, attempting to cut off my own thoughts “Well, I don’t suppose I do. At least, no one has used it in many years” he seemed to trail off “What am I supposed to call you then?” I said in surprise “You may call me...” he appeared once again lost in thought for a moment “You may call me Artist, Pretty Girl” he smiled, obviously pleased with his choice “Is that alright?” He finished “Yes?” I said almost questioningly, bewildered “Excellent. The Artist and Pretty Girl; we shall go down in history”.