An artist places a brush on canvas, and the world feels inspired. They see deep messages in the art, either for themselves or for the artist.
Artists express their deepest selves in the simplest of brushstrokes. They express their desires, their thoughts, their innermost self in every inch of the canvas.
Imagine the art of a man whose innermost self is nothing but a hollow monster?
The terror that the art brings when the brush is the bones and hairs of victims? The paint the blood of the fallen?
The screams that come from the darkest depths being the music the artist moves to?
Artists like this reside deep in Arcadia. Death artists who break bones, flesh and spill buckets of blood to express themselves to a world that will never see it, because fear keeps them away.
So, the artist screams louder, in the hopes that the upper world hears them. Sees them for the beauty they are creating.
The people here, the innocent people who were forgotten by the upper world and made the unfortunate discovery of our little slice of hell.
People who do not wish violence or harm, but are used to fill the artists tools.
You’re an artist just like this, Jasper.
You just never made it deep enough down here, so the world sees it. But the screams, they’re heard. Because I hear them all.
Artists like you make death its own artform. You deny the people rest because of the violence you commit; you deny them peace from the horrors that exist around them.
Even dead, they can’t find peace. Even when they no longer walk among us, you force them onto the world in their weakest, claiming it all for yourself.
Death is meant to be peaceful, a rest from the exhaustion that is existence.
You immortalize their agony upon the canvas. Never to know peace because they are plastered upon your wall.
But I’m an artist myself, you see.
I also deal in the artful death. But the difference is, my art isn’t an inspired piece meant for the world to see.
My art is a warning.
My brushstrokes? Letters of warning of what happens when you disturb the peace I look for.
My paint? The screams of the scum that seek to prey on the innocent lives down here.
My canvas? The broken bodies of the death artists, spread out for the world to be warned of what happens here if you are a predator.
Art is in the eyes of the beholder, and I’ve gouged many of them out.
Bring your brushes, your paints and your canvases down here, Jasper.
Try to use my world as your artist’s easel.
And I’ll show you how I create my art. I’ll play you the music that I work to.
Be another display piece I have to warn others like you that I will not stand for your kind thinking you have free reign in my world.
Let the night be filled with your screams.