HE SCROLLED THROUGH all the photos and chose the ones with the most suffering to be his muse. Then he painted his dark thoughts on the pure white canvas until it looked like something from a horror movie or a bad dream. He stepped back to examine his progress and felt like something was missing. It had plenty of fear, but it needed more pain. He grabbed the camera and went to the cellar.

The hooker yanked against her chains, cursing him all the while. “You can’t keep me here forever, you piece of shit!” she spat. “Do you fucking hear me? I hope you burn in hell!”

He calmly approached her with the large knife, but something she said caught his attention and gave him an idea—a superbly morbid idea.

“Thank you,” he told her and walked off toward the attached garage.

Moments later, he stood before her with a container of paint thinner, a large paint brush, a plastic funnel, and a pair of rubber gloves.

Her eyes bulged out of their sockets, and she demanded, “What is that? What are you doing?”

With a sadistic smile, he donned the gloves. “You have given me a wonderful idea,” he growled while setting the tripod up. “And to answer your question, since I’m in a good mood, this is paint thinner.”

“What for?” she shrieked. “What are you going to do to me?”

He smiled again and approached her while whispering, “I’m going to take ten years off your face with a chemical peel. You’re welcome.”

She thrashed against the cuffs so hard that her wrists broke. The snapping sound of bone and her screams accompanying it made him light up much like his father had done during one of his many beatings. He poured enough thinner onto the paint brush to saturate it before sweeping it across her face. Her screams bounced off the walls while her skin turned scalding-red and began to blister. He took several photos to capture the magnificent moment.

Her body went into convulsions, causing her head to bang relentlessly against the concrete wall while her eyes rolled back. He didn’t want her to knock herself out or worse. That’s not the ending he desired. He scrambled to grab the funnel, forced it into her mouth past her writhing tongue, and then poured in the lethal chemical. Foam came up her throat, spilling past her lips and making her look like a rabid animal. He took photos until her body ceased its twitching.

He eased her carcass out of the chains and tossed her into the walk-in cooler. Then he mopped up the floor and went upstairs to paint.

His strokes were strong and steady as he filled the canvas with suffering, pain, hatred, and death. The only thing the masterpiece was missing was remorse, and that was exactly how he wanted it.