Page 45 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Chapter

Thirty-Three

Dipping my fingers in the cold, wet paint, I smear crimson across the gray concrete walls, building layers of dimension. Red is my favorite color. It’s the color of blood. The color of…

No.

No.

No!

I slap the side of my head.

We’re not thinking of her.

I’m No One.

No One can’t think.

No One can’t speak.

Heavy metal throbs through the room.

It rings through my ears.

Growls.

Grates.

Promises death.

And so, I paint and paint, until a thin sheen of sweat coats my skin and my muscles ache from exhaustion.

When the paint is gone, I leave the room, collect another man from our prison, and I slice his throat over a bucket. He doesn’t fight me. He can’t. His eyes are missing. His tongue was cut from his mouth. Oh. I cauterized the wound, so he didn’t bleed to death. That was days ago. Or was it weeks?

He is No One. Just like me.

A vessel.

A bag of flesh for my use.

His blood fills the tin bucket.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The scent of pennies fills the air, and I look down.

Hard again.

Always hard.

Always…horny.

I slap my erection and curse it for existing.

It’s sin.

Pure sin.

The organ.

The pleasure it gives me.

No One deserves nothing.

No release.

No goodness.

I am a vessel too.

A bag of flesh for use.

Sweat drips into my eyes as I shove the bag of meat toward the door for Creature to deal with. He always does. He never asks questions or pushes me to stop. He gives me food and water and lets me paint.

I love to paint.

To carve .

To create art.

Body art.

Dark art.

It’s sin.

I know.

I was punished for it as a child. When I was supposed to be sleeping, I’d draw. I dreamed. I wanted more. To do more. To see more. To know more.

They burned the drawings and my dreams. They burned my fingertips for using them for anything but their will.

I’m the sinner.

The failure.

Dipping my hands into the bucket, warmth coats my flesh. I close my eyes and sigh.

This is much easier to work with. For drips. For smoothness. The perfect viscosity, fresh from the vein.

I cup my hands and fling crimson across a blank wall. The one I haven’t touched yet. Streaks of splendor coat the concrete, soaking into the nooks and crannies… and so I paint.

For hours.

Days.

Weeks.

Who knows?

I don’t sleep.

I barely eat… and the music plays on.

When I need to piss, I do it in the center of the room, down the drain.

When I need a break, I don’t take one.

Because if I stop. I’ll think and I’ll… sin .

I’ll think of red hair and green eyes.

Of pale skin.

Freckles.

And the unbearable pain in my chest will crack open and ooze like a festering sore. Ruining me. Ruining my progress. My club. My life… and

I’ll sin.

Because sinning with her is so sweet.

Those smiles.

And laughs.

The way she comes.

Fuck!

I slap the side of my head and shake the memory of her loose.

I am…

No One

I am nothing.

And I will die.

Soon.

Because I want to live no longer.

The pain.

It’s too much.

Life… It’s too much.

But for now…

I’ll paint this…

For her.

My ultimate dream.

My Soul.