The world is full of people searching for purpose, for inspiration. Some find it in music, others in the beauty of nature, and still more in the pages of a book. But for someone like me? Inspiration comes in a much darker form. A form that others would never dare to dream of.
For me, it wasn't about capturing the beauty of life, but rather the beauty of its end. The rush, the thrill—the lifelessness that beckoned me like a lover's call.
You see, we're all different. What brings pleasure to one person is nothing more than a fleeting distraction to another. But murder? That is universal. Every killer, regardless of their technique, finds pleasure in the same thing: the act of taking life. It's primal, it's pure, and it's the most intense high you'll ever experience.
I had lived my life struggling to find that spark, that driving force to make my art come alive, until one night—the coldest winter night I could remember.
That's when I saw her.
She lay crumpled against the trash cans, blood pooling beneath her, a twisted vision of beauty that called out to me. The flickering streetlight above cast shadows over her lifeless body, making it appear as though the night itself had claimed her.
I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel revulsion. I felt inspired.
It wasn't until that moment, when I stared at the lifeless form of that woman—broken, yet perfect—that I realized how deep the craving for inspiration ran inside me.