Art

(OOC: This is more of a psychoanalysis piece about my character, AAT-08317. The language used here is symbolic more than it is literal, as a forewarning.)

It was an art of its own.

It didn't matter the stokes, the thinly drawn lines or the thick marks across the shape of a canvas. What mattered was the end product, the thing that was desired at the end. Anything could be made art, but to be a masterpiece... it must be in accordance to the stroke, it must be precise in the measure of the drawn lines, thick or thin. Masterpieces, were rare. And rarer yet, were mistakes made on them.

The artist held his brush, as he kept it concentrated on the shape that he desired to fit into his masterpiece. His fingers drummed across the brush, contained inside a glove that was smeared with a red oil. The artists features formed into a harsh scowl: the persona of a critic as he analysed the object that stood petrified before him.

The still object seemed to be cast of stone, with its arms thrown up to warn off the glare of its painter. The artist kept himself concentrated through, unrelenting to the pleas of the object that desired him to make a mistake on his masterpiece.

The artist kept his brush concentrated on the object of his masterpiece, as his thumb lined up with the length of it. The artist examined the brush that he held, to ensure that the proper colour, tint and amount had been added to its tip. The direction of his strokes must be precise, otherwise he would endanger making a mistake on the portrait.

The object pleaded for the mistake to be made, almost as if to demoralise the artist and refuse him of his masterpiece.

But the artist stared on, as he prepared his canvass for the the marking and touch he would make to his art. It was nearly completely, all it took now was the necessary stroke of the brush and it would all be made whole.

The object trembled—almost violently—as it aimed to throw off the stroke of the painter.

The artist tilted his head to one side, as if in consideration of what the object was trying to do. But he shook his head eventually, unconvinced by what the object had just done in attempt to ruin his masterpiece. Instead, the artist concentrated and with one final and sharp stroke...

A silent gunshot was heard; the light stroke that the artist had painted.

The target fell dead, as crimson blood poured from the wound that had broken the target's chest and thus ended his life. The ejection port for the casing opened, as a brass shell ejected from the weapon. The assassin caught it from the air, as he examined it before he slid it into a pouch. His silver eyes turned around the rest of the art gallery, as he counted out the bodies he made. Blood smeared across the polished wooden floors, according to who tried to crawl away from the chaos that was brought by the assassin's work. He then turned his eye to the single portrait of a raven, perched on a cropping near a stream.

The assassin looked at the bodies again, before he holstered his handgun. Looking again at the painting of the raven, his eyes quickly criticised the small strokes that made the head of the raven, the assassin muttered quietly under his breath: "Should have used the detail round instead of the pointed."