Wilford had always done art in a particular manner, no matter what he created it seemed to have both simplicity and complexity. It always looked effortless, yet too difficult to copy. And his crowning joy was always the glitter. Every painting, every sculpture, every carving, incorporated glitter in some form. Whether its scattered all across the work, or used instead of painting the details of an entire feature, such as the eyes. This always had significance, referencing the coins that Egyptians placed on the dead to carry them into the afterlife. Unlike coins glitter is a much more glamorous price to pay for death.
He smiled pulling the knife out of it’s garter belt, smirking at the young man tied up with some soft pink rope. He twirled the dagger around, a beautifully balanced ornate silver piece, deadly sharp, the handle being an amalgamation of vines and roses. He enjoyed showing it off, such an art work should be feared but admired. Revered. Like him.
Wilford could he that the meek human infant of him he was scared, beyond terrified, he knew what was coming. As did Wilford. The waiting was the fun part.
‘So’ the boy squeaked in reply he was far to broken to be a man in this moment. ‘I know what you did. To those girls. And yet here you are. Living your life. And as they crumbled away into nothingness you became something. You know, I could nearly call it unfair. But. Who am I to judge. I’m just a crazy man with a moustache after all. It’s not like I know everything,’ finishing the sentence with a wiggle of said pink moustache. He traced his dagger down the boys arm, the amount of pressure causing pain, but not enough pressure for blood.
‘Now. I’d appreciate a signed confession. Also a desperate sounding letter written to you parents telling them how much of an absolutely deplorable monster you are’ the boy let out a sort of insane giggle at that.
‘’Hippocrite’ He spat. ‘You’re obviously depraved. Totally mad’. It was as if the certainty of his own death had given him some form of boost to fight back, even if it was just with his words.
‘It may be so. Me. A murderer, almost completely untouched by the police. Absolutely RENOWNED amongst my colleagues for my very top notch reporting work and art alike. We’re different breeds of monsters you and I.’ Wilford touched the ornate dagger to his own heart and tapped three times ‘see I have empathy, I actually care. But there’s one thing I absolutely do NOT care about is people like you. Assuming you can get away with whatever deplorable act you can. Well well well. The truth catches up to you, you know? People like me. Making the world less. Well. Less like it is, with people like you inhabiting it.’ Every now and then to accentuate his point he would jab him with the dagger. Just for fun/
The boy was crying, sobbing, absolutely begging for his life. That he was sorry. That he would do anything to make it stop.
‘Me? Stop? For you?’ A lighthearted joking lilt to his voice. He paused and then replied in complete seriousness ‘Absolutely not. We both know you don’t understand how consent works. No means yes after all.’
He didn’t last much longer after that. The confession of his sins was signed. A long trembling letter about things that should never have happened written to parents.
The male’s body was found on the steps of the art museum that held Wilfords most common exhibit, the Chinese symbol for repentance painted on his forehead in black glitter, which was also placed on his closed eyelids and filled his mouth. The corpses arms were crossed across his body like an Egyptian mummy, the letter in one hand, the signed confession in the other.
"Beware your sins will find you out" Wilford whispers sitting in the comfort of his art studio, pouring a small vial of black glitter down the drain, ominous smile plastered on his face.