A white room.
White walls, white floor. Pristine, for now.
A petrified looking man is tied to a chair in the centre of the room, but is greeted almost warmly by Harvey Escher.
“How nice of you to wait around, little lamb.”
A table is laid with an assortment of blades which Escher mulls over.
“When an artist paints, the tools which they use are essential. A skilled hand using a frayed brush will not create a masterpiece.”
He picks up a rather unsettlingly long knife. This one is tarnished, spots of rust forming along the blade.
“I sat on Deathrow for a long time. With every day I sat, I became that frayed brush. I weathered, rusted away.” Escher draws the blade close to the neck of his victim. “Do you know what it is like to feel as if you are but a rusted blade?”
The petrified man shakes his head. Escher slices the man’s neck. His gagged mouth screams in excruciating pain, blood trickling down his neck. Yet, he does not die.
He weeps. Escher tuts.
“Hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn’t it?” A chuckle of laughter. “You see, a dull and rusty blade cuts with a large amount of pain. The jagged edges bite more than a sharp blade, but those cuts are shallow and ineffective. A lot of pain, for minimal gain. Not the tool to create art.”
The blood from the victim’s wound begins dripping upon the clean white canvas.
“Useless. That’s how I felt. Wasting away in that cell, I lost my edge. My name, once feared all over Arcadia, became like this blade.”
He picks up a tool on his table, scraping his blade along it as he speaks.
“But I don’t have to toss away my brushes when they blunt.” He pokes his own finger with the blade, drawing blood. “My tools can be sharpened as good as new.”
The sharpened blade scrapes along the victim’s cheek, cutting a thin line with ease. The terrified man whimpers.
“Ah, yes. You’re right to fear the blade anew. For the sharper the knife, the easier it cuts.”
“Just like this blade, I have been sharpened. Refreshed. Breathing the air of freedom once more, I have begun to regain that which I had lost. My edge.”
Escher brings the blade to the throat.
“Nineteen lambs just like you are the perfect way to show the sharp edges of my blade. For every lamb slaughtered, my blade will cut with ease.”
Escher’s knife digs into the man’s neck and the blood begins to flow.
“It’s time to paint a masterpiece that will echo throughout Arcadia. Feel proud, little lamb. Your slaughter will be a small part of that masterpiece.”
“Nineteen lambs just like you will taste my blade. My name will be once more uttered in hushed tones.”
Harvey slices the blade across the man’s throat. This time, blood gushes, spurting and spraying the white room as the knife cuts with ease. Harvey smiles as he sees his art take shape.
“Let’s make a new scene, Arcadia. It’s going to be Pandemonium.”