Warning: This is a serial killer romance. There's some serious fucked-up shit here and is not recommended for readers who are not a fan of dark romance.
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When two serial killers crossed paths...
I am the Reaper and I'm proud at what I do. I...
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Their screams...it's beautiful.
Their cries while the agony and the desperation for life twisted each angle on their faces, it's art.
I choose my victims carefully and I arranged them with precise detail and enough symbolism for the public to know their sins.
I don’t kill people.
I make art.
I beautify.
Our world is filled with the ugliness of abusive fists that leaves bruises. The starving twists of their ghastly faces whenever they inflict such hideous acts.
I turn the repulsive sight to the beauty of draining them of their color and dipping my brush to the red.
The land was a canvas for me to paint.
So, I do.
Swirling the colors to form a thick crimson, fresh from the source after a hunt.
The public is awed by my art, both the process and result and I’m so fucking proud of it.
Young students took picture of the hanging paintings on the museum, sharing it on social media. Not knowing about the raw material used, that isn't acrylic.
My painting.
My art.
They blindly admire it.
Questions were asked why I recreated the ‘vlad the impaler’ bringing life to fiction and beauty to gore. But I let their curiosity be shrouded by mystery.
It’s even such an amusing sentiment that my name happened to be Vlad Moroz.
The artist of the very own art, both displayed at a museum and one that was discovered and investigated by the cops.
And that’s the point.
I hide at plain sight. I idolized my own creation.
That’s why no matter how many hints I leave during my kill, they will never know it’s me.
No one knows.
No one should.
Until her.
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The Reaper
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Their cries...it's delicious.
Their repentance, the absolute break taste like ambrosia on my tongue. It’s murder but I call it cleansing.
I call it reaping.
They handed me the scythe when one of them decided that sixteen is a right age to dishonor my body, taking what aren’t theirs to take forcefully.
Throughout the years, I sharpened the blade with each bone it passed through. It grew thirsty and vengeful for flesh to wound and souls to reap.
The harvest is ripe and I am the reaper.
I mutilate the tools of men they used to corrupt and abuse. I slice the thing men calls ‘power’ with a single swipe of my curved blade.
Rapists. Child molesters. Pedophiles. Sex abusers. Wife beaters. I cleanse them from the earth.
They’re worthless shits anyways, and the society will be grateful to see them gone.
I reap.
I cleanse.
I help.
That’s why the FBI chose to turn a blind eye to my activities, granting me a free spree. The harvest was wonderful. It was plenty, and I am satisfied that my storage is getting full.
Everything is perfect.
Until I crossed paths with The Painter.
Until I discovered the identity behind the infamous hunted serial killer.
He wanted to turn me into his art to rid me of my soul’s putrid filth. Little did he know, I’ll reap him first before he can lift his brush.
(Yh, you're right. The hot mf on the ⬆️ is Christian Locke)
