Project 1: Canvas, of My Victims (Disturb work)

I’ve laid down the plastic.
 
In this gloomy room, hung upon these cracked walls.
 
We are in the basement.
 
Me and this beast.
 
Called man.
 
He is strung up.
 
Exposed, and frightened.
 
In all that fear filled splendor.
 
Ropes tightly tied.
 
To metal hooks.
 
Blindfolded.
 
Gagged.
 
Sniffles.
 
And snout.
 
Trickling down.
 
His facial features.
 
About avenge.
 
Sized being.
 
With my tools next to the “project”.
 
I had wished to finish.
 
Made up of 20 hides.
 
Merely dried to a flat.
 
Curling.
 
Tough.
 
Material.
 
Looking towards my tools.
 
I grabbed my box cutter.
 
Hearing him make muffled shrieks.  
 
As the blade slowly.
 
Caressed.
 
His soft skin.
 
“You know, the skin is an actual organ. Like the ones that function inside you.”
 
I said, in a calm tone.
 
“Its job is to hold the ones that can’t survive among the surface.”
 
The only response I got.
 
Were cries.
 
Inserting the blade into both wrists.
 
Makes cuts horizontal and vertically  
 
Along the four arms.
 
Unleashing the crimson liquid.
 
Into the huge bucket.
 
I had placed under his feet.
 
“Well at least we know you’re a screamer, ha! They all were.”
 
In an amusing tone.
 
Asserting my fingertips.
 
Beneath the flaps.
 
Of skin I had recently made.
 
I tugged in till the skin.
 
Fell away from the muscle.
 
First the right then the left.
 
Arms were bare of the organ.
 
Next I began to do the same process.
 
To the legs.
 
Stripping them both of the hide.
 
He would shake violently.
 
“It must sting uh? I apologize for that. It’s a small side effect to this sort of a thing.”
 
The bucket was only a few inches of red.
 
Filling its contents.
 
“I’m now going to set you free from the pain, from constant agony of the impending torture of others who have deemed you hideous. I’m making you into the most beauteous creature that walked upon this earth. To render those who have labeled you ugly, they will envy you, for you will be turned into the canvas I write my wondrous words on, to make the perfect poetry book. For it will only seem fitting to put my works on the best materials I have collected. If I laid my master pieces on the dull conpacted misery of paper. It will deem my words as de-saturated plain letters. So I must thank you, for letting me honor you with this gift of being the perfect canvas.”
 
Inserting the blade quickly.
 
In his throat.
 
He died minutes after.
 
I finally stripped the back and stomach of the skin.
 
Cleaning my tools in the sink.
 
I moved the bucket away.
 
Then cut the rope.
 
Watching his mangled body.
 
Hit the floor.
 
Proceeding to hang the skin I had retrieved.
 
Upon a clean set of hooks.
 
Next to the many others I have hung before.
 
I drained the bucket into a large jar.
 
Ceiling it away.
 
For ink I use to write.
 
Taking hold of the body I stored it.
 
In my meat locker.
 
He hung near a woman.
 
His wife actually.
 
“How I love freezers.”
 
I said in a humors voice.
 
“My book will surely be one to be praised. The project will be one of many I will conduct.”
 
I smiled.
 
Feeling pleased with my work.
 
I will name it the book, “Canvas, of my Victims”.