A sort of sinister story about a man giving into his urges.
His night began as it had many nights before. A sudden urge, an indomitable need that would rise to the top of his mind, fogging his vision; causing his heart to race and a sheen of sweat to cover his skin.
Stumbling over to the bathroom to gaze into the mirror, the man was nearly taken aback by the leering visage that stared back at him. His hair was black, oily, and tangled. His skin was pale with many veins pulsing madly underneath. His clothing was was plain, absent of any logos and of dark colours. The man could see that his shirt was soaked with sweat, his jeans were covered with questionable stains.
The man's eyes were the most noticeable thing about him though. They were a dark brown, and the shape of his eyelids along with his brows gave many people the impression that he had 'dead' eyes. Whenever the man stared off into the distance with a blank expression on his face many who gazed upon him were able to imagine that they would receive a similar stare from a corpse. None of the man's acquaintances could ever tell what was going on inside that head of his, but right now as the man was staring into the eyes of his reflection he knew that tonight he could not resist his urges.
He needed release, he needed the dreaded voice whispering to him at the back of his mind to shut up. He kneaded his temples and stepped into his living room. Books lined the shelves on his walls, many a classic. He owned no tv and the lights were off with the curtains drawn. Darkness filled the room. The man liked the Darkness. He always felt safe in its gentle caress.
He nearly tipped over his laundry on the way to his closet. His eyes already adjusted to the dark, he opened the door and stooped down to remove some of floors panels. He removed his knife from the shadowy treasure trove and replaced the flooring, pausing only to make sure that the false panels did not stand out from the others.
His knife to him was a thing of beauty. With its black metal fused together with the gray, its sharp curved edge and the hilt made of bone. It was a weapon meant for cutting and slicing. This was his paintbrush, and with it he left his apartment to find a canvas. The Voice needed to be stopped before he went mad.