Dear Diary,

I am about to kill a person.

"Kill"... Such an abrupt word to describe the beautiful end of a life. "Murder" sounds much more compelling—a slightly less brutish way of phrasing it that is pleasing to my ears.

Unfortunately, nuance in death is lost on the common folly of the average Hautefoy.

They see a corpse and cry for slaughter, omitting the elegance of the act, the precision of the carving, and the meaning of the slits. They steer their eyes to the brightness of the red, losing their senses to its stench with no intention of discerning its masterful flow.

What a waste. How many poor artists have gone without renown due to this abject prejudice?

I do agree, however, that the works of amateurs have tarnished the refined touches of traditional homicide. Wanton butchers often claim to understand the true essence of our craft, yet what do they present but flesh mounds with the skill expression of an undisciplined child?

Their messy indulgences have left us voiceless in a sea of criticism, shunned, abhorred, and forced to perform our art in the solitude of the night.

It is time for a revolution. No, I daresay, a renaissance!

The writer twirled his fountain pen between gloved fingers, glancing at the corner right beside his desk.

There was a small, albeit ornate, bed with a feathered quilt covering the bare body of a mature woman. Tasteful drapes of linen swayed atop the drafty window, waking her from a restful sleep as specks of light slipped through the panels.

He briefly indulged in the atmosphere of a fruitful dawn, then turned back to his journal.

Lady Camille here is the woman of a happy household. Her loving husband is involved in the mining of Lapis Phylaca, which, with the recent advances in its uses, has made them quite wealthy. Her two children are bright little things who are well-behaved, focused, and showing great promise in their studies.

A perfect life, isn't it?

"How boring," she had told me, disgust etched on her face.

Humans are peculiar creatures, my papery friend. While we are one species, our wants and desires are as diverse as the cloudy shapes in the sky. A man's trash can be another man's treasure, as they say.

How many vagrants litter the dark streets of Noirsacre, either succumbing to the cold's grasp, the kiss of maladies, or the Church's olden songs? Many would suffer torment and famine for a taste of Lady Camille's life, but here she is, throwing it away so easily.

Still, her behavior is a most curious one. "Unique" would be a fitting term here, so much so that I cannot even begin to understand her thought process, but I must persevere.

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Artists exist to give form to the fathomless, to the incomprehensible, and to the abstract. We are the only ones capable of subliming their ethereal nature into an object to behold, thus defining our duty to this world.

Indeed, my duty is to murder this woman.

"Why?" you would ask, my little companion. As I recall, this is my first time inking upon you the details of my newfound technique—the fruit of a decade's research for a novel art form.

It is the soul.

The greatest canvas, the most enchanting of colors, and the cruelest of materials.

Upon leaving this world in the wake of a last breath, it dances and glimmers in strands of tangible light. Its whirls and twirls are dictated by the combined tunes of an individual's life experience, birthing a one-of-a-kind phenomenon that differs from one person to the next.

Oh, what a sight it was, my initial glimpse at the fleeting climax of a lone existence.

I wish to immortalize it. I yearn to turn every human—no, every sentient being into a masterpiece, for I believe that this is their intended shape.

We are buds, absorbing, "growing," until the day of our deaths, when we shall bloom splendidly before the ineluctable wilting.

The self-sustaining, endlessly multiplicating paint of a spiritual fresco.

The writer paused, turning again towards Lady Camille. He had difficulty stifling his excitement, the ceaseless tapping of his foot adding a dreadful note to the chamber's creaky silence.

The woman understood his cue, gracefully flipping her covers to reveal a kitchen knife tucked within. She grabbed it with the gentleness of a mother cradling her babe, pointing its sharpened end at her throat.

Lady Camille is a woman who has everything one could wish for yet chooses to discard this good fortune for reasons that escape even her. When asked, she would blurt out vague explanations such as "It's too perfect" or "I crave the thrills."

But I am convinced that there is malice hidden behind this confusion... a deeply buried vice that she refuses to acknowledge. It emerged once during our tea chat as she pondered the reaction of her beloved family at the hypothetic discovery of her bleeding body.

For a hundredth of a second, her lips had curled up.

The deviousness of that smile cannot elude my ilk, though I realize this confesses a particular flaw of mine.

I happen to be an irredeemable sadist.

Threads of white silk suddenly pressed against Lady Camille's skin, stopping her in her tracks. Her eyes widened, then locked onto the writer with the faintest glint of surprise.

As realization settled in, they contracted like black dots amidst a sea of blue, showing a hint of fear.

"You said this wouldn't hurt."

"Apologies, my Lady," the writer purred. "Lies are so easily uttered, and I find myself terribly ashamed to have accepted their lure. You see, fear is vibrancy. The vividness of a terrified subject is a dazzling delight, and I adore the contrast it allows. Why do you think I opted for the dreariness of this dark room?"

Lady Camille had already forgotten their deal, her frail limbs struggling against the ever-tightening threads.

"And the pain. Oh, the pain. It is the ending of all endings, the final blast that elevates the spectacle. The agony of your last shriek, mirrored into a grandiose swirl as your soul sizzles upwards for all to witness... a guilty pleasure of mine, I must admit."

"Let me go." She pushed and pulled, throwing her weight around in hopes of breaking free. "Let me go!"

The writer rose from his seat, taking a leisurely step towards the bed. He was towering.

"Surely, you can do better. I assure you that you have a beautiful voice. Let it scream."

He arched his back to look her in the eye, his stygian gaze darker than a moonless night. His charming face, paler than a cadaver's, slightly contorted with the stretching corners of his lips.

"Please," she begged, feeling a malevolent grip closing around her heart.

"No, that won't do." He shook his head, its jet-black locks swaying along. "Fortunately, we have ample time for repetition. The bloody dawn requires a morbid ode, and you are its best singer, Lady Camille."