4. Brain Damage

4

brAIN DAMAGE

DAISY

ABOUT ONE YEAR AGO ― June 20th, 1974

Every year I wait for the news to hit. For terror to ensue. For the phantom to strike.

On June 19 th of every year for nine years now, a murder happens. And not just a random murder―a remarkable one.

They're all absolutely unforgettable. Staged like pieces of otherworldly art.

The killer sculpts his victim's bodies, paints them in blood and other mediums, carves into their skin with sharp blades and tools. Sometimes he ties them up with colorful ropes and gorgeous knots or impales them on handcrafted wooden sticks, metal spears…

To sum it up―he gets real creative with it.

Each year is different, but they always end up as masterpieces.

His kills are carefully thought out, with a purpose. He only kills the bad apples of the world―that much is clear. Then he uses their ugly bodies and souls to create something beautiful.

The Sculptor of Death is an artist, one that I admire greatly. He got his name for the obvious reason that he turns his victims into sculptures.

The first time I heard of him was on vacation with my parents in Florida. Mom and Dad were sitting outside on the balcony of our hotel room, reading a book together and being their usual clingy selves. I turned the TV on for a little while and plunged onto my bed to relax, and that's when they spoke of him on the news.

The way the reporters and detectives described the murder―I could see it as if it was staged right before me when I closed my eyes. It was horrific and I was disturbed, at first. But then they showed a small fraction of a videotape, one that the killer left for the police to find.

In the video was a confession of the victim admitting to his despicable crimes, and you could only see his face. The rest was blurred out because it was too gruesome to show on TV.

The Sculptor always records the confessions before he kills his subjects and he sends the tapes to different local television stations close to his killing locations.

That is important to him. He wants to bring justice to the world, and I think it's something to be admired. The Sculptor is a hunter and he only takes out the dangerous animals who hurt the innocent ones.

The victim's name was John McKinley, and he was some kind of government official. He was the cause of his wife ending up in a mental hospital because of his psychological as well as physical abuse. Her name was Rebecca, and her face was deformed and burned because of a tub of acid that he dunked her head in. She even lost her eyesight.

This resulted in John getting into the killer's claws.

They showed a before-and-after picture of the wife on screen. She used to be a painfully beautiful woman, with long dark black hair and vibrant blue eyes, and she owned a flower shop in the city they lived in. She and John were newly married, and she refused to give up her shop when he demanded it.

He didn't accept that.

It was swept under the rug due to him being in a position of power and there not being any type of proof that he did it, but the killer somehow found out the truth.

That seems to be his MO―going after people in higher ranks. Men in government, banking moguls, politicians, and the like. Not because of the politics, but because of the way those people tend to get away with everything. I don't know how he does it, but he's able to find information about these people that the public has no clue about.

I remember the panic in the politician's eyes―the exact moment he finally admitted the truth to the camera. Once he did, the killer showed the camera a piece of himself.

His mask.

His haunting handcrafted mask. The shapes, the colors, the creepiness of it―it was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was beautiful in the most disturbing of ways.

Every year, he wears a different one, and every single one is torturously stunning in its own way. His body is always covered by a black coat and he wears leather gloves.

A disguise, so no one can ever get any wiser about who he is.

I think, despite needing to hide his true identity, he still always wants to show a piece of himself, to take credit for his work.

A true artist, in every way.

John McKinley was tied with rope, suspended from the ceiling. Large, wooden sticks were impaled all through his body, starting at his chest, all the way to his thighs. The wood was carved with beautiful, odd shapes, the details made to perfection.

His eyeballs were taken, and it their place were two teal-colored roses inside the sockets. His wife was the only one in the city who grew this special type of colored rose.

The Sculptor wanted to honor her, somehow.

This was three years ago. Since then, I've been excitedly waiting for him to strike every year. I've scoured for old newspapers and magazines in the libraries in town and found articles about every single one of his kills. I cut them out with scissors and glued them inside a thick book.

He's invincible. He chooses a different state in the United States each year, so the police have no idea where he's going to strike. They have no clue of how to prevent another kill from happening. They only know the motive―killing people in positions of power.

I sketched the murders, painted them―made those scenes with my hands, squeezing soft clay as if I was there with him, molding human flesh into something of beauty.

I now sit on my bed, once again waiting in front of the television. And as soon as the reporter says the words ‘The Sculptor of Death strikes again', I grip the satin sheets in my fists and bite my lip to suppress my manic smile.

Arizona, this time. Phoenix.

I grab my sketchbook from beside me on the mattress and start drawing the things they describe. When they reveal more details of the crime scene, I let my imagination fly, picturing it so clearly.

It's magnificent. So unique and powerful.

Though I wait for him to strike each year, it's all different this time around.

Because now?

Now I know exactly who the Sculptor of Death is.