Delusions of Homicide

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Bill Cipher x Reader

After being pushed to the limit, a small schizophrenic boy with a passion for blood is out to create a masterpiece. And this time, he's using his classmates as his canvas...

I hate the color red. It is the color of blood and of tears. Cold wet bodies, and the taste of rain clashing with the sickeningly sweet red in my mouth. The color of suffering, insanity. The color of not knowing if what you see is real, and not a figment just conjured by your sick brain. I hate the color red. But, I wasn’t always like this. Let me take you back to a time when I loved and cherished red.

Once upon a time, I was a normal kid. I had an average look, and average grades. I lived in an average looking house, with average parents who made an average income and gave me average possessions. I had a very normal life, and I loved it. But everything changed, on that day, the day my eyes first laid upon red.

It happened during break. My classmate, Melville, had just walked into a wall. You see, Melville always wore thick-lensed glasses, and had poor eyesight because of it. So today he was wearing contacts for the first time. I went to side, of course, but my legs stopped dead in their tracks, for my eyes couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing.

A trickle of blood dripped out from his nose, and… it was magnificent. The shining, rich liquid was bursting with life and color. And oh, how it flowed down his cheek! It was the physical embodiment of perfection itself, as gorgeously superb as a glacier in a hot, spacious desert. Unfortunately, as all beauty is fleeting this lovely work of art is no exception.


Melville wiped away the wondrous masterpiece with one, clumsy, dunderheaded move. He handed the piece of perfection to me, as if asking me to dispose of it. Then, he just walked away, as if nothing of importance had happened. How? How could he just walk away? How could he pretend that I’m not holding the most important thing that has ever happened in our lives? Surely my fellow classmates would NOT let this injustice go unspoken?

But no, I was wrong yet again. No one was crying out in outrage, or fainting from this blasphemous waste of a miracle of nature. People were acting like this act of oppression of art wasn’t even critical. Like it didn’t even matter. Almost as if… I didn’t matter. Just then, a sudden realization struck me.

It was incredible, like being struck from behind in a blind spot, but in an epiphanic way. A shocking beam of light cut through the meridian on something that was always half a shadow. Every day that I had lived out so far had been beautifully average. Or, so I thought. Every. Single. Day, I had lived out the exact same schedule, with no room for error or change. I had been in the greyscale for so long, I didn’t even know it. After all, I was born in this dull, depressing world of theirs. And, for the first time in literally forever, I had a fantastical change in my point of view. I held the first scrap of LIFE in my small hands.

And it was stunning.

A tear welled up in my eye and attempted to make its way down my cheek, but I wiped away its progress with my shirt sleeve. I didn’t want to ruin the integrity of the tissue’s glory. Well, even though the tissue could go nowhere near the utter tranquility and gorgeousness of fresh, shining blood on a background of pale skin, there was a fair amount of color contrast here. It was not unattractive. Actually it was still quite pretty, more abstract than s rare desert flower.

I looked around the room. Was anybody watching me right now? No? Good then. I gazed down at the bloody tissue. It was all so mesmerizing; I just had to get a closer look. Surely, it would be even better… than before. I couldn’t help but shiver in sweet anticipation. I took the cloth of blood and brought it straight to my face, breathing in that lovely metallic scent. Then, a symphony of flowers bloomed in my nose, each note more metallically fragranced and delectably sweet than the last.

Time stood still. The black and white people around me ceased to move. After all, I was no longer one of them, a member of the colorless, empty people. In that moment, I had meaning. For once in my life, I was filled in, with color. There wasn’t anything that could ruin my perfect moment. For once, I didn’t feel the monotony of everyday life. For once, I was at peace. I felt complete.

There are certain defining moments in your life that you know will make you as a person and change your life forever. This is definitely one of them.

I breathed in that intoxicating scent some more. I just couldn’t get enough of the feeling of metal and organic, luscious roses growing on the inside of my nostrils. Why didn’t everyone do this? It felt so nice…

“Um, what are you doing?” A sharp voice pierced my field of fragrant euphoria, shattering my glorious faith and composure. I opened my eyes, being brought back to a harsher reality than, it turns out, that I could handle.

Remember my classmate with the glasses, Melville, from a minute ago? He stood before me, with the memory of smudged blood still on his nose. Why was he staring at me looking so confused for? I followed his gaze, and saw that it landed on my tissue. So? Why was he staring at me with such disgust in his eyes? Did… did I do something wrong?

“Are you sniffing a tissue? And is that my blood on it?”

The sharpness of his voice sounded like I was doing something bad. Like my expression of inner peace was disgusting?? At any rate, his cold and unforgiving eyes made me feel inexplicably guilty. What was Melville’s problem? It’s not like I’m hurting anyone.  

Still, I couldn’t help but look away. Why did I feel so bad? There was just something about Melville’s glaring, cobalt eyes that got under my skin. I had to change the subject, fast. I had to say something, it didn’t matter what. It’s not fair. I’ve always had a bit of a silver tongue, I’m even Germany in the Model U.N., god damn it! So why is this the only time where words fail me, when I need them the most?!

My thoughts usually tidy and organized, where whipped up into a panic, whirling about this way and that. After a long, painfully awkward pause, I finally was able to speak, but since I was so distressed, I just managed to speak the first words that came to my mind. So, in an effort to erase the awkwardness, I said:


Unfortunately, my oh so clever endeavor to avoid tension just complicated things to a further extent than I could comprehend at the moment. Melville raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Um, how about yes?” he countered.

“How about my blood on my tissue left a red mark on your face?”

Wait, really? I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve, and there it was plain as day, a large, “red” stain on my white shirt. Then, my eyes widened as a startling realization hit me. I finally, finally had learned the name for the color I loved. Finally. It just wasn’t right to name such a marvelous creation, and one had seen provided for me. RED. It’s was fitting, after all. An amazing name for a spectacular color.

A snapping sound brought me out of my haze. I looked up from my stained shirt sleeve to see a frowning Melville, right in my face. He was snapping his fingers right by my ears to catch my attention. “I, I hear you, so cut it out!” I stuttered. I didn’t understand any of this. About five minutes ago, I and this kid were acquaintances. Sure maybe not best friends, but we got along!



So why is he turning on me so viciously now? What changed, and how did it happen so quickly? I bowed my head, trying not to think of the possibility that had only just occurred. Was it me? Was I the wrong one, for expressing my love? Was, was I really that absurd? I couldn’t help but let a tear form its way around my cheek. It was too much for me to take in, all at once.

I felt like my entire body was being ripped at the seams, as was my life. I never thought of myself as a sensitive person, but right now, I literally felt like I was losing my mind. But, there had to be some kind of way to fix this, right? Maybe we could talk this out. It was all just a big misunderstand, right? If I could just speak to Melville about having a more open mind—

Remember when I said I felt like my body was tearing apart at its seams? Well, now I felt like my face was on fire. I reached up to my other cheek, and felt a horrid burning, stinging sensation. Then I looked to where the red mark on my face had come from. My now ex-friend, Melville, had his hand drawn forward, like he had just slapped someone’s pale face.

I stood there, not moving, not blinking, silent as the grave. What. Had just happened? There’s no way… that I think what happened occurred. I don’t, I, I don’t understand. What did I do? My fists clenched together. I watched, as Melville called his friends over. Humph, they’re just birds of a feather, aren’t they? Flocking together in a big, idiotic mass of ignorance. I can hear their words now.

“Hey guys come over and see the circus freak here! He just sniffed a cloth with blood on it! It totally left a huge mark, come check it out!”

I had never been angrier in my entire, short life than I had in that moment. How dare them. How dare they poke fun at ME, at the creation of miracles that lay on my shirtsleeve? What right did they have to mock the only thing I care about anymore, that gives me life color and meaning? The only thing in the world that gives me such peace and joy like nothing else has, and ever will again? Thanks to them, I’ll probably have to be homeschooled for this incident. How dare them. HOW DARE THEM.

I had to do something. I had to do something at least as painful, if not even more so to them. I had to make them suffer, to make them pay for what they did to me. But what could I possibly do or say that could inflict so much physical, emotional, and psychological damage as they’ve given me? Then all of a sudden, a wonderful, innovative idea occurred to me.

It was so ingenious! How could I have not thought of it before? I couldn’t help but smile, for what more fitting justice to their crime was to make them bleed? Just take any old sharp, somewhat lethal object, say a stapler sitting on a table? (Perfect.) And simply shove it into them again, and again, and again, until blood come gushing out of their ears? I couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. I shivered in sweet, lovely, BEAUTIFUL anticipation at the thought of seeing it.


Just imagine it, the shining, juicy, redness coming out of them! As I stepped forward to them, I made my plan. No, I would make this a simple bludgeoning. No, I make it very, very s l o w and painful. Oh, what a bloody, red mess I would make their deaths! Really they should be thanking me. I would be making their last moments on Earth turning them into a work of perfect art! A red, red tapestry to the juicy muse called Red Blood.

Yes, they all certainly should be thanking me, for all of my hard work that is yet to come. But, alas, there is no time. I must get to work at once! Ah, my volunteers approach. I did my best to suppress the euphoric grin on my face.

“Well, if isn’t the little freak himself!” Melville exclaimed. “Are you back for more? Or are you a homo on top of—’’

Now, I know it’s rude to cut someone off mid-sentence, but I couldn’t wait. I can’t help it, I’m a driven person, and I was excited to start my new project. So, I got straight to it. I weighed the stapler in my hand. Hum, kind of heavy. I didn’t want to misestimate the leverage of the very first blow of the project. I shrugged and decided to just thrust the black object with all my might for optimal efficiency.

It worked! Oh, and how incredible it looked! Well, maybe not quite how I imagined it, with blood bursting out of his eye socket, leaking down his face, and splattering all over my other volunteers and on the floor, but what I got was very strange, but still exciting. Melville’s right eye was bruised and swollen, sort of like when a banana turns brown.

So I continued my work, stabbing and slashing, experimenting with different strokes, discovering new colors, all the while maintaining the same ecstatic smile on face since I started. What’s this? Two of the other boys attempted to restrain me, trying to take the instrument out of my hand, and pulling my hands back away from my subject. Why? Did they not like my work? Oh, God, what if… what if my art wasn’t any good? Another person came up from behind and tightly detained my arms, making me drop my stapler.

I looked into their faces, dropping my smile. They weren’t laughing, or smiling, or telling me what a good job I was doing. The same amount of disgust and disappointment remained in their eyes since before I even started. The boys didn’t even have a single thing to SAY to me. They were disheartened with me, and they weren’t the only ones. What was I thinking? I was no artist. I was a hack, at best. Just a foolish amateur who thought that a simple stapler and a dream could bring them success.

I was no stardom story. I was a cautionary tale. A young, dim-witted, feckless neophyte who soared too close to the sun on metal wings clumsily bound together by wax. But I was on top of the world. It felt like no one could stop me from achieving greatness. However, that was only the beginning; that was my rise. I was such an idiot.

They brought me down a long hallway. Where were we going? To the Headmaster? My parents? The Police? I suppose it doesn’t really matter, anyway. I’m a pathetic failure. They may as well cast me out into the streets and brand me as a dirty peasant for the rest of my life. Oh, Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, Van Gough… I’m so sorry. You great men were my muses, my inspiration. I was your descendant of art, I could have continued your great work through many, many decades, but I have failed you all.

Oh, woe is me; I’ll never be great like them… Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, Van Gough. Then, a sudden epiphany struck me. I stopped dead in my tracks. Wait a minute, Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, Van Gough?! These were all great men who often had struggles, and less than noble beginnings! Van Gough lived in the outskirts of his town was thought to be insane, and his art wasn’t worth anything until a century after his death! Picasso was born into a poor family of Catholics, but with hard work and dedication, became a famous atheist! Da Vinci was poor, too! All of these great painters had struggles, hardships, and a loss of faith. I have too, but that’s no reason to give up. They haven’t, (well, maybe EXCEPT Gough,) and… and I refuse to.

Melville nudged me. I remained still. They picked themselves up, and continued their work. And, so will I. “What you waiting for, creep?!” Someone yelled, off to my right. “Are you as deaf as well as crazy?!” I shook my head. Someone tapped my temples harshly. “Well, get a freaking move on, then!”

I moved, and made a plan. I looked around my immediate surroundings. Was there anything that I could use, anything that could be a potential instrument? One, two, three… We moved from the empty hallway down to the one with lockers, by the art room. Hmm, could I use anything here? Sadly, no. I sighed. But, that was all right. I’m a patient person, so I’ll just have to wait.

Then, we rounded the corner, and entered the main office vicinity. But, we weren’t near any sharp objects yet. Well, that was ok; I could wait a little longer. I’ve made it this far, after all. Four, five, six… I was so close; I could almost taste the blood soaked, metallic object. So exciting, the very thought of continuing my work gave me the most delectable shivers. After all, the office was one of the most dangerous parts of the school. Pens, pencils, scissors… there would be no stopping me.

Seven. Even from this distance, I could hear the chatter of the office up ahead. So near to our destination, I could perfectly visualize the upcoming scenario. I would walk in the office, my arms bound to the sides, pretending to cast my eyes on the floor, when in fact I would be searching for a suitable weapon for my liberation. JUST before my wardens would take me to my jail cell, JUST before it would SEEM like all hope is lost, I would strike. Escaping from the cold, heartless grip of my oppressors, I desperately grapple for anything that I could use as a tool for my salvation, until I finally see it, my Excalibur.


It doesn’t really matter what it is, since the result will still be the same. I’d then proceed to rip the computers out of the walls and the telephone cords out of the telephones. I’d throw pens and pencils at everyone, and relish in all of their screaming and pain. Oh, so much yelling. But, I swore to myself, even if I brought them to the brink of tears, and hear them begging for mercy, crying for salvation, I would not give it to them so easily.

I swear to God that I will make them suffer and enjoy every single second of it. I will s l i c e through their pale flesh with pointed sticks, over, and over, and over, again, and watch them bleed. So, so much beautiful red jumping out of them, so quickly. Over their cheeks, through their eye sockets, spilling out onto the floor… I see myself laughing, a high, joyful laugh that resonates through the pale, silent halls. It, it feels so good—

A hand smacks against my skull. “Oy! Peabrain! We’re here.” My head snapped forward in shock. WHAT?! Already? How could I have missed this?! I was so wrapped up in my fantasy that I missed—oh, wait. As I took in my surroundings, I realized that we weren’t THERE, but just in the main office. Phew, I still have my chance, for revenge. Now, where to begin…?

Melville was talking to a lady at the counter, whispering, and pointing at me. Then, the office lady looked over at me. To ease the tension, I flashed a big smile at her, trying to bolster my confidence. She gave a little wave, but I could see, quite plainly in her eyes, that she was truly afraid of me. Fine. Who needed her? In a few minutes, she wouldn’t even—NO. C’mon, focus. Remember what you have to do.

I gazed over at my selection of deadly instruments, few as they may be. Pens and pencils sat simply in a mug on the counter, but they were of limited fatality levels. Hmm, there was also the computers, and I could always just choke people with the telephone cords, but, again, limited fatal levels. I began to get worried. What if there wasn’t anything deadly in here? Then, should I wait until I can find one? I glanced over at Melville, who was finishing up his talk with the office woman.

A cold trickle of sweat went down my forehead. I was about to go to the Headmaster, or even worse. Then, there’d be no escaping. If I was going to enact my liberation, it would have to be right now. Eight. “But… but… but…” What could I, a mere child, possibly do? I wasn’t strong enough to rip computers out of the wall, or strangle people with telephone cords. I’m just a—




“Has only made me stronger,” I mumbled out loud. It was right; I had come so far because I didn’t panic under pressure. I simply had to calm down, think, and quickly construct a plan. My eyes darted around the room. The mug was slightly over the counter, about to fall with a push, the phone on the end was left unattended, and the mail slots were filled with letters. Humph, this was so obvious, a child could do it. This was fortunate, for me.

I looked over to my oppressors, the two boys holding onto me. They were distracted, glaring at the clock overhead, as if they were mad at it for not going faster. They were so underwhelming to look at. Why did I let them push me around? Their physique was scrawny, and as I watched them foolishly picking their own noses, I wanting to slap myself in the face for not acting sooner.

This would be a piece of cake. I screamed at the top of my lungs, pointing in the direction of the ceiling. “OH MY JESUS, WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?!” And while everyone had turned their heads to my imaginary problem, it was fool’s play to squirm out of the two boy’s arms, and stealthily make my way to the counter.

I emptied out the contents in the mug in my hand. Pens, pencils, and a rubber eraser. Hmm, I’ll pocket the eraser for later. Unfortunately, someone saw my presence by the counter, undetained, and seemed to remember that I was “dangerous.” I heard a woman’s voice screaming for someone to grab me. I scowled, and looked to where a boy my age came charging at me. I swiftly sidestepped him, and whirled around to face an adult male racing towards me. Well, lucky I had my mug. At the peak of his speed, I flung the empty mug at his head. Dazed, he stepped back a bit, giving me ample time to take a nearby metal chair, and smash it into his stupid skull, making him stumble and fall backwards into a wall with a wonderful cracking sound.

I checked the bottom of the chair, and grinned, for there was blood drawn. Oh, yes, it’s all coming together. More and more people rushed at me, trying to stop my rampage, but I whirled around with my chair, knocking them down, watching them bruise, and b l e e d, so, so many times. To change things up a bit and surprise them, sometimes, I threw pencils and pens like knives, (damn, I wish I could have had one! Oh, the blood it would draw…) Scattering papers to trip and shock my enemies, fling the chair around, throw pens and pencils, wash, rinse, repeat.

It was such an incredible experience, one that I can barely describe. I beat the crap out of people, so many that I can’t even count it, forcing brown and black bruises out of them, and occasionally forcing the bright red juices that kept their foul bodies working, were the greatest moments. I was an artist, and this was my art. And it was gorgeous. Ahh, so much pain, blood, sweat, and tear were shed; it felt like I was in my own personal Heaven.




Of course, it turns out that in this scenario, I was not the everlasting sun, but the fool flying around the place on wax wings. I was so into beating the tar out of one guy that I completely forgot to notice my surroundings. They, them, the ones dressed in black, like my own personal angels of death, came up behind me, from out of nowhere. By the time I had realized what was happening, the angels had me on the floor, whilst all of the screaming, insults, death threats, and struggling did me absolutely no good.

It was too much, all at once, to take in. They, the angels, were too big and strong for me to handle. But… why?? Why had things turned out this way? I was the artist, and these subjects were my art. I was creating perfection itself! So why, why was I being persecuted like this?! My crime was the advancement of art! That’s so ridiculous, and stupid that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, hysterically, whilst tears streamed down my face, for the grief I was feeling was too much to hold inside.

I lifted my head as much as I could, to at least see the faces, to glimpse the life that I was leaving behind. Idiots. They stood there, practically frozen in shock at my “crimes,” looking at me in varied expressions: shock, disgust, (still?!) pity, and, worst of all, fear, in horror in what I’d done.

Farewell, this life of mine. Farewell, monotony of a “free” life, with routines, and a never-ending schedules and work that had to be followed to the letter. Well, I have no regrets. I lived, laughed, and loved. I pursued my interests, and took methods to advance the field of art that most would agree that the world was not ready for.

I lived a full life. Whether or not it was going to end, I could not be too sure. But you know what? I really don’t care. The only thing that I gave a damn about was the color red, and the amount of joy, peace, and love that blood gave me. And now that I have been separated from my love, I feel so empty, cold, and alone inside.

I couldn’t care less about anything else. I’ll probably never see red again. So, what’s the point? I didn’t even want to be conscious right now. At least, in my dreams, I could feel red, again. I glanced over at one of the angel’s nightsticks, hanging loosely over his belt. They were all distracted. Before they isolated me forever from well, probably everything, I sneakily slipped the stick out while he was talking to the others. Good. Then no one would notice until it would far too late to stop me.

I raised the heavy stick up in the air, as far as I could stretch, and brought it down upon my sensitive skull, making my pounding head slump down. Before my vison faded completely, and I slipped into unconsciousness, and the realm of dreams, stained red with the blood of life, I saw a little line of fluid dribble down from my head.



It was blood, MY blood. Before I passed out, I shakily wiped a drop of blood onto my finger, and managed to bring it up to my mouth, and greedily lapped it up. The last thought to occur in my thoughts was pure bliss. There would be no more pain or suffering for me. Just blissful, pleasant, sweet visons of grandeur.







Submitted: November 10, 2016

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