The New Aesthetic

         It was 3:43 A.M. and the streets were dead, not even the drunks and homeless were out.  There was only him.  He was only slightly taller than average height.  His long, dark hair was greased back against his skull and tied with a crimson red ribbon.  His features were strong, with a solid, square chin and deep-set crystal blue eyes.  He was pale, and the orange glow of the street lamp gave his complexion an eerie luminescence.  He wore a tailored suit and overcoat, both of which were black, and a white shirt.  His red silk tie bore dark stains that made it appear that he was a sloppy eater, but he was not.  He sat on the dirty steps of a building across the street from an apartment complex, and watched.

         As the last light faded from the building, he rose, tightening his leather gloves as he crossed the street.  It was 3:46.  He entered the building quietly, methodically moving up the stairs, floor by floor.  He opened the stairwell door to the third floor and let it glide shut behind him, not a sound.  He smiled, and a faint glimmer of moonlight danced off of his teeth.

         Raymond D. Feeney, age twenty-five, was an aspiring actor who worked at le Fleur de le Soleil, an upper class French restaurant downtown.  He lived in apartment 3C of this building.  He had no family in the city, and he lived alone in his one-bedroom apartment.  The man almost laughed at the irony of the situation that was about to unfold, because he was an actor too, of sorts.

         The man walked a short distance down the hall and found 3C.  He produced a small set of lock picks, and proceeded to insert them into the lock of the apartment door.  He worked the locks and then paused for a moment after the lock clicked open.  Everyone in the building was asleep, including Raymond.  He placed the lock picks back in his pocket, slowly opened the door and was stopped by the chain on the door.  He casually reached into another pocket and pulled out his knife.  He slid the shiny silver blade underneath the chain lock and pried it effortlessly from the wall.  He checked the blade for scratches and wiped the wood splinters from it with his fingertips.  The blade was polished steel, tapered to a sharp point, and the handle was hand-carved gold and ivory.  He entered the dark apartment with his dagger held tight against his forearm.  It was 3:53.

         The interior of Raymond’s apartment was modest, with the only furniture being a small sofa, coffee table, and a small television.  The man jarred the table as he entered the living room in the darkness.  He moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.  He looked inside and found takeout boxes from the restaurants around the neighborhood.  It was exactly what the man expected.  He rummaged through the cabinets and found everything exactly as he had pictured it.  His next stop would be Raymond’s bedroom.

         Raymond was lying asleep in his bed.  The man walked over to his dresser and quietly watched Raymond for a few moments in the moonlight that filtered in through the window.  He then moved right next to the bed.

         Raymond was sound asleep as the man looked down at him from the side of Raymond’s bed.  The man paused for a second and smiled at the peaceful expression on Raymond’s face, then flicked on the lamp next to the bed.  Light flooded the tiny bedroom and the man said. “Time to wake up, Raymond!”

         As Raymond groggily came to, his eyes strained to focus.  That was when the man brought the knife down, and the Raymond barely saw it flash down toward him before he moved.  The blade cut deep into his left shoulder and stuck into the mattress.  Raymond rolled off the far side of the bed as the man cursed under his breath and moved around to the other side of the bed where Raymond was scrambling to his feet.

         Raymond made it to one knee when the man stepped into his path.  Raymond saw the flash of the blade a second time, but was unable to avoid its cold strike.  The man struck out with the knife backhanded, slashing Raymond’s throat from ear to ear.  Raymond fell backwards and collapsed on the bed.  He could hear his heart clearly, pumping his life onto his satin sheets.  He struggled to climb across the bed, but his strength was drained.  The room began to pulse in rhythm with his heart, growing darker with each beat, slower…darker… until his vision clouded over and the darkness folded around him completely.  Raymond Feeney lost consciousness, never to return.  It was 3:58.

         The man grabbed a corner of the bed sheets and wiped his blade clean.  He took a long hard look at the body lying on the bed, taking in every detail of the terrible scene he had just created.  He then reached into his coat and pulled out a Polaroid camera.  He took a few photographs of Raymond lying there sprawled out on his bed, a few close-ups of his clouded eyes, and his ghastly wounds.

         The man laid the camera on the dresser.  He bent down and scooped Raymond’s lifeless body in his powerful arms.  The man was strong, but he knew if Raymond had been more than the one hundred and fifty pounds he had estimated Raymond to be, the man would needed to allow much more time to do what needed to be done.  He grabbed the camera from off of the dresser, carried Raymond out of the bedroom, and decided that he would start in the kitchen.



         After he had finished, the man walked out of the apartment door, and left it open as he quietly padded down the hall pausing briefly to pull the fire alarm.  He ducked down the fire escape and down the alley behind the apartment building.  It was 4:25 A.M. and Lucan Graves was headed home, and sirens were wailing in the background.

         Raymond Feeney had been the latest, and easiest of Lucian’s works.  The subjects were all so easy to predict.  He had known everything about them, but in no way were they connected to him.  They were random names from the phone book that he sought out, stalked, and preyed upon.  He watched them, waiting for weeks as he learned everything he could.  Their jobs, their social habits, every detail had to be mapped and analyzed before he could take action.  Then, when the time was right, he struck.  He felt no remorse for his subjects.  By killing them, he was immortalizing them.  He did it for art.

         Lucian walked for about a mile until he found his car, a dark discreet late-model sedan.  It was nothing that would attract attention.  He started it up and the soothing sounds of Mozart filled the cabin.  Mozart always seemed to calm his uneasy nerves.  He put the car into drive and eased out into the street.

         Lucian was moving uptown now, gliding smoothly through the deserted city streets.  He pulled into a garage in the Newcastle complex.  He parked the car and walked across the cavernous structure to the elevator, his footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of the garage.  He walked past the night watchman and feigned a drunken stupor as he walked into the elevator that took him to his penthouse home.  The watchman was paid for what he did not see as much as what he did see.  For a penthouse client, coming in at four in the morning from a night of clubs did not seem unusual.

         The elevator door opened and Lucian burst out, kicking over a hall table just outside the penthouse entrance.  He was furious as he rushed in, flying past the spacious living room and into his studio at the back of the penthouse.

         Lucian tuned on the lights and stared out at the empty canvas before him.  He frantically ripped a stack of Polaroid photographs from the breast pocket of his jacket, then tore the jacket and shirt off; the sudden warmth of the room making Lucian break into a sweat.  He dropped his clothes to the floor.  The heat of the room was now almost unbearable.

         Lucian stared blankly at the photos, taking in every detail from every one.  After a while, he reached for a paintbrush and his palette of paint.  He began to work madly at the canvas, rapid, violent brushstrokes at first, then more calmly as his energy subdued inside him.  To Lucian, it seemed like only moments had passed, but it was dawn when he had finally finished.  In front of him was another masterpiece inspired by the ghastly crime he had committed merely hours before.  He was pleased with his work, feeling he captured the terror of the scene perfectly.

He gathered up his clothes and snatched the photos and carried everything over to a small closet in the corner of his studio.  At the bottom of the closet was a small safe.  He placed the pictures among many others, then carefully folded his suit and placed it in the safe as well.  He then locked the safe back up, and closed the closet door.

         The pictures in that safe were the inspirations for Lucian’s art.  He was enjoying notice as one of the top artists in the city, and his paintings were drawing top dollar at the most exclusive galleries in town.  No one who owned one of his paintings knew that the abstract swirls and colors were really the documentation of some of the most heinous unsolved crimes the city had seen in twenty years. 

         He had kept his favorite painting for himself.  It was beautiful, hanging over his fireplace, the paintings vibrant crimsons dominating the picture.  He passed it, smiling as he remembered the inspiration for it, and went to his bedroom to fall asleep just as the city came to life.  It was 6:00 A.M.