Black Canvas (Patreon)

DISCLAIMER: The following story is a work of fiction. This story is meant to entertain only. Any similarities between names and/or real life situations are coincidental. 

"What did I create?" Emily asked herself proudly.

"Who are you talking to!?"

Emily spun around, startled by the sudden aggressive voice. There he stood, Henry, her husband of eight years, looming in the doorway. She had been so deeply focused on her work that she hadn't heard him approach. A rarity since he was often stomping around as if he needed to make his presence known.

She could see that her husband was in a mood, likely another bad day at work. Usually she'd take some time and start trying to soothe him and, once placated, he'd return to his loving self and leave her to her work. Not now though, she couldn't be bothered when she was so close to completing her masterpiece.

Not worth the time, she thought as she spun back to her painting. Eyes going across every inch, making sure she hadn't dragged her paint brush against it when she flinched. There was no room for the slightest margin of error. If she found even one drop of paint out of place on her work then she'd scrap the entire painting and start again. She'd work through the entire night if necessary.

"I asked you a question!" He demanded as he made his way into her room.

Emily frowned but didn't turn from her work even as he stomped closer to her.

"My Magnum Opus." Emily calmly answered without looking back. She didn't see any smears and smiled, her work was unblemished.

"Your ma-who's in here!?" Henry demanded as he marched through the room.

Emily barely resisted rolling her eyes from the painting at her husband's blatant reach for conflict. The room was hardly more than an empty space. The closest things to furniture where the piles of paint cans and stacked to make a seat in front of her spare easel. No curtains to hide behind and no doors to sneak through. There was literally nowhere for anyone to hide in the room unless they had used her paint to blend into the walls.

Henry ignored common sense and stomped with each step, carelessly kicking over an open can of paint. Emily watched as it spilled and stained the floor, a waste of good paint.

Such a mess, Emily thought. Not bothering to give him the attention he was demanding. No, her attention was on the only thing that mattered in the room. Her greatest creation, the one that would finally give her the recognition for her efforts. The one that will hopefully inspire others.

"Who will you speak too?" She wondered.

"What?" Her husband demanded as he approached her. He practically shoved her aside to see what held her attention. "What is this blank shit!?"

Emily frowned at the insult to her work.

The painting was not blank. It started out like any white canvas that was ready to be painted on before Emily began going across the white surface with black paint with even strokes of her brush. Layer after layer of the of the black paint was used to coat the canvas. She had spent the majority of the day diligently going across it with steady strokes until the shade of black was just short of being vantablack.

And he was insulting it.

The noise and aggression could be forgiven, even the distractions from her work, but not this. Moving to his side, Emily watched as he glared at her work as if it were the source of his anger. Even if he wasn't blind with anger, she highly doubted he'd be able to appreciate her work.

"It's almost done." She stated as she inched closer. "It just needs the finishing touch!"

Emily moved faster in that one moment than she had in any point in her past. Her arm was a blur as she swung the blade across her husband's neck.

Henry just stood up in shock, as if he were still trying to process what had just happened and, for a moment, Emily had feared she had missed him entirely. Then she saw it, a small red line growing on his neck where she had gotten him. And it was exactly where she aimed. A clean cut across the carotid artery with the sharpest blade she owned. A simple Paring knife hidden in her craft apron that had been sharpened until it had a fine edge for this very moment.

The blood came flowing out like a pressurized, red fountain. Henry put his hands to his throat as he desperately tried to stop the bleeding but she had made sure the cut was as deep as it was precise. He was already dead and his body just needed to catch up to the damage she had done.

Until then...There! Emily thought as she kicked the back of her husband's leg and forced him to his knees. She knelt behind him and grabbed at his hands and pulled them away. He resisted and thrashed around, trying to escape her grip. It took all of her strength to hold on to the dying man but she refused to release him. She could feel her husband desperately fighting against her, trying to keep his blood inside in a futile attempt to survive. The more he struggled, the wider Emily smiled. This was what she wanted from him! The pure rawness of his struggle while his emotions ran wild!

His blood sprayed wildly through the air like a stream and splashed right across the room. Emily couldn't exactly aim it as her husband tried to escape. He kept trying to put his hands firmly on his neck while Emily desperately used her weight as she continuously pulled them away.

Henry's blood pooled at their feet as they continued wrestling and Emily frowned. The blood was getting into the floors, their clothes and everywhere in the room but where she needed it. This was nothing more than a waste of her precious material.

Emily tried to literally point his body into the canvas' direction when she realized he hadn't put up as much resistance as he had a second ago. It took her only a moment to realize that his blood loss was causing him to weaken. This was good and bad for her. Less resistance yet but also less of the material she needed. Wrenching one of his bloody hands behind his back, Emily frantically grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulling his head back. Finally, his blood splashed across the still drying black surface and trickled about. It was barely a spritz but it was enough.

Emily only released her dying husband when the pressure of blood began to drop. Henry collapsed to the ground, no longer having the strength to support his own weight. He could do nothing more than make a choking noise as his body twitched. Emily just stepped over her husband's still writhing body without a second glance to him, careful with her steps. Not for any sense of care for him but for the painting as it was in a delicate stage at the moment. She simply didn't want to trip and knock over the painting or smear any of the blood while it was still settling. The way each drop landed was unique and She would never be able to reproduce the exact details even if she slit the throat of every last human on Earth.

Ignoring Henry's last desperate gasps for life, she leaned in closer to the painting. The red of the blood seemed more vibrant against the pure black painting. Emily couldn't tell what the red drops on the black canvas reminded her of more. Either crimson stars in the blackness of space or ruby rain drops falling on a pitch black night. That was part of what made art beautiful. It was the chance for different perceptions that would help it grow and that was exactly the type of art she was trying to create. Something that would make people do a double take and think 'What is that' or maybe 'I see a...' and so forth.

Her unyielding devotion and his unwilling sacrifice. The meticulous strokes from her brush to the spontaneous spray of his blood. The hours she sacrificed to his last few seconds stolen. This would be her masterpiece, Emily thought before looking at the still corpse of her husband and smiled. This would be their masterpiece.

"What did we create?"