I don't own. You should know.

It's really short, I know, but that's the way it's supposed to be. Cure for my writers block.

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He wasn’t the normal kind of clichéd kid. He didn’t do it for the rush, or the blood, or even the pain.

He did it for the art.

The masterpiece at the end.

The story.

The scar.

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"'Are you sure? I mean, maybe you just heard wrong."'

The voices were hard to NOT hear over the expanse of the loft. It could have been the blood rushing in his ears, but it all seemed more magnified than before. The pounding of their shoes sounded like gunshots in the stale morning air as his ear pressed harder against the ground.

"'No, I'm positive. Why they hell would I lie about this, Brad?"'

A scoff sounded somewhere deep behind his eyes. He had always been an honest man. But, that never mattered to Brad. It never took anything short of years to convince him of anything.

"'I'm not saying you are. It's just...it's so unlike him..."

They do say it's always the one's you don't expect, Bradford.

"'...maybe you...misheard."'

He braced himself for the onslaught that would most likely follow. If Brad was easy to convince, then Chester had the patience of a saint.

"'Fuck you, Brad. I KNOW what I heard, ok?! Just because you think he's such a fucking role model, doesn't mean he is! I've seen it ALL my life, and it's NEVER the people you know."'

His voice became softer. Something that his years of drug addict friends and absent family had taught him.

"'...Never your family. Your friends."'

He could hear the sigh, and knew they were just outside the door now. Pathetic how he couldn't even force himself to move. Brad sighed too. The tell tale sign that he had caved.

"'Except when it is."'

Silence. They were probably exchanging looks. Another scoff. So predictable. No wonder this had shaken up their little monotonous world.

The knock sounded harshly against the cold wood.

Funny, he had always thought it to be so warm...while his body cooled.

They hadn't even waited for an answer before the door swung open, revealing a whole world that never even occurred to them. Blood painted the walls, once white, now a dirty brown copper. His touch ruined even them...when he had been trying to make them so beautiful too. He had just tried to share his gift...but it ended up dark and dirty.

A soft hand...two fingers...touched his neck shortly before a bracing slap connected with his paled cheek.

"'Fuck you, Mike. How dare you do this to us!"'

In the cold, Chester's words didn't even mean a thing. Brad just stood, eyes wide, hand covering his mouth. Maybe he thought it would keep the scene from becoming a reality.

It had started years earlier with just one picture. One cut. One movement of his wrist. It all made sense then. For years he had struggled with different art forms. It took one mishap with a safety razor to discover the perfect canvas.

Flesh.

Eventually it had stemmed into a full body creation. The only beautiful thing he had ever made. He had hoped that others would understand, but after the conversation on the phone with Chester, ending in screams, he knew it could never happen.

They would never understand, that this was the way he was beautiful. This was the only way to make his art a reality. Living and breathing...

well, not anymore.

Too much had left his body, but nothing in his life was ever an accident. He knew. He always knew.

"'Mike...buddy...why did you do this?"'

Brad's words came too little, to late. Meaningless, anyways. Just like Chester's. It was not a suicide. No, it was never about death, or blood, but the result of the action. The meaning behind it all. The beauty.

It had taken his life, but it was finally complete. The masterpiece of his life was finally done. He was finally beautiful.

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I love constructive criticism.