• It is quiet, except for the quiet, regular dripping of the blood. The room itself used to be white, but now, the beautiful red is splashed over everything, breaking up the monotony of that dull, colorless shade. The blood stands out so vividly, that vivid beauty of the crimson…

    There are splashes across the walls, as if mocking the so called modern art created in the same style. Some swirl into designs, abstract and yet concrete. There is no rhyme or reason. No words. No intent. Just art. Art in its most primal form.

    The floor is covered in thick pools of scarlet blood. The varying depth creates a plethora of different shades of red, coiling around each other in a mesmerizing pattern. They draw me in closer with the rich crimson hues, the controlled power in that beautiful substance. Yes, there is power in that liquid, for it is the liquid that gives life to the world and everything in it. Yet it is forbidden power, for the only way of obtaining that liquid is by the most sadistic, violent of measures, measures that no sane person would attempt. But then again, I left sanity behind long ago.

    The overwhelming scent of the blood reaches me. For some, it is nauseating. For me, it is delicious. But nobody could deny its strength. It beckons me forward, step by step, until I am standing at the edge of the deepest of the pools. I kneel, and my hands reach forward, almost tenderly, to dip themselves into that beautiful sea of scarlet. Standing with my precious handful of power, I raise it to my lips.

    And as the liquid of life flows into my body; my soul flows to the stars.