Snead licked the edge of his knife as he stepped toward his next victim, step by step. The taste of his own blood only heightened his desire to paint the walls with the young woman’s blood.
None understood his art except a select few, and they failed to fully grasp the intricacies of his style. While that knowledge once infuriated him, he no longer cared.
They scoffed at Picasso, Da Vinci, and Monnet.
His name may be forgotten, but not his work. No, that would surpass theirs.
And to think, his high school art teacher said he had no talent.