*****

"We are the hollow men..."

So beautiful.

So pure.

Teeth butchered neck and that coppery maroon erupted forth effortlessly. Warm. Ecstasy as it slides down his throat. And nothing should be this perfect.

Body falls limp and essence flees leaving the shell. The perfectly abundant shell of life. Brought over his shoulder and he walks back to his home. No. Lair. His lair. His art center. Where he becomes god and they become his creations. And nothing he makes is ever ugly. No. Never ugly. Cause everything that god creates is beautiful. Down to the maggots and roaches. Beautiful.

Drops the shell on the floor and the sound that it makes hitting the solid wood floor is beautiful. Crumbling before him. No time to enjoy. Must create.

He strips her of that ragged clothing, and puts on his latex. Skin tight. Loves the feel. No time.

The silver stainless steel glinted, reflected the candle light and running a finger across the blade, slicing through the second skin. He�s ready. To create.

Sharp incision at the jugular and the scalpel is brought down to navel. Maroon thickness spills up and to the sides, and his hands spreads the once hot liquid everywhere. A handful spread on the face, and that color is so pretty against that olive skin. Another handful soaks her hair. Once the spilling stops he folds back the layers of the skin and removes them all. The spleen. Liver. And the bladder�and the kidneys. Each essence giving organ thrown into a bag for later disposal. Such a daunting task. But God never rests until the seventh hour. The heart is last. And it is kept. Kept for his beautiful maggots. Finally, the body was truly a blank canvas. Maroon splashed and ready.

Time for the roses. Thorned, of course. Stuffed into the canvas. Next, yew and some lavender. He carefully sewed the folds of the skin with black silk thread. Only the best for his works. Wrapped in thorned vines his creation was final ready to be hung up with the others. Moved to a hard painting canvas (how ironic � a canvas upon a canvas). He stapled down the loose skin and pinned the hair into place. And then placed in on the wall. Gloves removed he stood back to admire the work.

Suddenly cool hands wrapped around his waist from behind, and had he not recognized the touch, death on the wings of the seraphim would be on the owner of the fingers interlocked around him. He let his head fall back to rest on that shoulder behind him, never taking his eyes off of the creation.

�Why are you crying, baby?� The soft voice slithered down his back.

He hadn�t noticed that the water freely flowing down his face.

He spoke. �Its just�so beautiful.�

�It is Jon.� Devon hugged his lover closer to him. �Baby, it is.�

Both of their eyes were locked on what Jon had aptly named, �Cordelia Unsheathed�.

End