17 16: Desperation

Beta'd by SnowyEgrett

CW: Torture

Lin FenXiang sighed, his head throbbing at the rush of memories related to each of his paintings. While everyone else were busy admiring his work and listening to Bai XiNian recounting the information about them, Lin FenXiang was, fondly or not, recalling all of the memories associated with them.

Slowly shaking his head, he walked away from the painting of Lady Eleni and reached the next.

The next painting, however, caused him to freeze promptly.

— Desperation.

The only painting which was, while not directly but not quite indirectly, related to him and the entire massacre of his family.

It was a bad memory, filled with insanity and a tinge of regret, if nothing else.

Lin FenXiang clenched his fists on his sides as he looked at the painting with a harsh look in his eyes.

The painting was dark, grotesque, unsettling and quite nauseating. It gave off a heavy, grief-laden and much like its name, desperate feeling to any onlooker.

Lin FenXiang didn't quite remember why he'd made a painting like this.

On the canvas, against the thickly layered murky black and brown background was a stark white, pallid man lying helplessly in his confinement. His ribs stuck out from his frail chest, his form so fragile that his neck could have been snapped with so little force.

His fingers, as much as one could see, were broken, his neck stained with red as the same rusted red was smeared on his face whilst dark, bloody and sickly hands with dangerous claws for nails mercilessly dragged across his face while also choking him.

The man's face had an expression that was as good as anyone's guess. His face was despondent while also being, for the lack of better words, desperate.

However upon observing carefully one would see the terribly, terribly seizing fear, hatred, anger and above all, the knowledge of inevitable doom and fearful resignation to his fate.

In conclusion, the painting itself, though a masterpiece, was horribly unsettling to look at.

No art analysts could guess how or why Drystan Meyer had made a painting of this kind despite leading a perfectly normal life. How was he able to depict the emotions of this painting in such a realistic manner, no one knew.

— Except, of course, Lin FenXiang.

He knew full well why he'd made a painting of this sort.

Somewhere from behind Tristan snuck up to him and canted their head ever-so-slightly in askance once they saw Lin FenXiang observing the painting.

"What's up," they asked even if it was more like a statement than anything else.

"Desperation," Lin FenXiang replied tastefully. "Makes me wonder what was going through the artist's mind."

Tristan looked at the painting then at him and wore a contemplative look on his face as he spoke with a shrug. "We can never be too sure. Most artists do have a reputation of being eccentric so there isn't much to say."

"This painting… it's, well, unsettling."

"Well," Tristan started, pausing a bit, they continued. "It's lot more graphic than what others would expect, however, Van Gogh's painting is somewhat similar."

"Yeah, I know," Lin FenXiang sighed, tapping his foot on the floor rhythmically. "But oppression in Wheatfield with Crows is much more toned down, since it didn't exactly depict death or at least torture—" he grimaced "—it gave the omen of his impending death. Not torture."

"I know, but can't you just appreciate a masterpiece?"

Lin FenXiang grimaced once more.

He wished he could, he wished he could appreciate this painting as much as others — who knew nothing of its history — did. He wished.

He really did, but he couldn't. Not with the knowledge that the red in this painting wasn't what most thought it was.

It was the weight of his sin, his regret, his anger.

It wasn't what people believe it to be.

.

Drystan sat in front of the easel and painted the canvas slowly as he sat in a rather dark room with the window blinds pulled to block prying eyes.

He paused and then twirled the paintbrush between his fingers. Letting out a quiet sigh, he glanced at the dog a little away from him. The black Scottish collie perked up and walked to him, tentatively rubbing against his leg as it whined.

"Shhh, good boy," Drystan whispered, pressing the paintbrush against his lips as he looked down at the dog. "Let me have some peace, yeah?"

The dog whined again but otherwise quietened down as he gently scratched behind his ear.

"Mmmph! Argh! Ack…" Drystan moved his attention away from the dog whining against his legs.

Looking sharply at the dark corner of the room, he hissed coldly. "Did you not hear me?" He said, placing the paintbrush away. He slowly stood up from the easel and walked behind the canvas.

Slowly prowling to the dark corner in a predatorey manner, Drystan's refined lips curled into an uncharacteristic sneer as he looked down at his prey.

He slowly bent forward to get a better look at his prey.

— A pale, frightened and visibly tormented man bound helplessly, unable to move. A cloth was tied to his mouth acting as a gag so that he couldn't speak or make lod noises.

Drystan looked at the man with a condescending light in his eyes and harshly grabbed the man's chin and tilted his head so that the man could look at him.

He was already drenched in cold sweat as more beads of sweat trailed down his forehead. His eyes held fear, insurmountable fear, as he looked at Drystan as though he was seeing sure death.

"You want to be free?" Drystan crooned sweetly as he looked at the man.

The man nodded his head rapidly, expressing his need.

"Are you sure?" He sneered, tightening his hold on the man's chin.

Then, as if he was pulled out of a trance, he desperately shook his head in denial.

"Mmph, mph," he shook his head just as quickly as he had nodded it.

"Oh," Drystan canted his head slightly. His eyes were cold as he said with incomparably gentle tone. "How did you change your mind so suddenly."

Without waiting for the man to make another miserable sound, he clutched the chin with greater strength and ruthlessly pulled his chin down.

With sickening sound, the man's lower jaw broke haplessly, unable to even muster up a scream.

Drystan could see tears streaking down his gaunt cheek and saliva pooled in his mouth as he choked out a sob.

Drystan gasped, his eyes held shock as he whispered. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry… Don't cry, shhh—" he wiped the man's cheek off the tears "—I didn't realise I was hurting you." He sneered.

His eyes trailed down the older man's fragile neck as he snaked his hand to the neck, his touch was gentle as he applied pressure to the neck.

The effects were instantaneous as the man gasped miserably. Drystan stared down at him coldly and increased the pressure on the man he held in a choke hold.

Squeezing his neck harder, Drystan cooed like a call of death.

"If you don't want to die right now," he whispered softly. "You better stay put and be a fucking nice model. I'm not done with you."

"Wh..why?"

"Why?" He repeated frostily. "Should I ask you why you helped kill that family sixteen years ago?"

The man froze, seized by horror.

"I didn't ask you that, did I?" Drystan mused loudly, standing up. He wiped his hand which touched the man with a handkerchief and walked to the easel. "Forget it, I already know the answer to that. Why trouble yourself?"

Pinching a palette knife between his slender fingers, he ran his other hand's finger along the edge of the blade. His face was covered in shadows, making it difficult to see his real expression.

After some time, he turned to the dazed older man with his own lips pulled into a distorted smile, the knife in his hand held an odd glint of sharpness in it as the sparse light fell on it.

Slowly, he walked to the man, his every step was like a hot knife through his captive's heart and a boulder on his chest. As he approached the man, the oppressively cold aura around him increased.

Then patiently, he squatted in front of him, smiling down at him gently. Drystan slowly waved the sharp palette knife at his face.

"You see this?" He asked slowly, resting the sharp blade on the shivering man's bared neck and felt him tense under the knife. "There, there. No need to be so tense. I won't kill you… At least not yet."

The man looked at him pitifully. The tears of pain leaking through his eyes as saliva dribbled down his slackened jaw.

"So behave and I'll let you live longer," he stated apathetically and ran the knife on his neck with slight pressure.

—Blood spurted through the cut and poured into a miniature bowl poised under it.

Drystan wiped the leaking blood using his thumb and then smeared it on the man's frightened face.

.

Lin FenXiang's hands shook slightly as he took a deep breath, his head snapped up, looking at the grotesque painting on the wall, he exhaled tremblingly.

The red of the painting seemed startlingly bright. It prickled in his eyes.

Barely stopping himself from staggering, he stepped back from the accursed painting.

He bit his lips gently.

He was, after all—

—An insane sinner.

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Author has something to say:

Author (the entire time): *cackling* Murder, murder, murder…

Xiao Xiang (smiling softly): I'm fucking twisted.

I got my result and passed with good marks but then i cried cuz apparently even 94% isn't enough to satisfy my family.

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