When he woke he was still on the floor. He slowly uncurled himself and rose, looking around the room. Rusty blood spatters were all over the floor, and bed, and the walls. He sighed. He had even gotten some on the formerly blank canvas that stood in the corner. He went over to it and ran his fingers over the bloodstains. The pattern of splattered droplets was... pleasing. There was something artistic about it. Me, on canvas, he thought. But no, the blood isn't mine, it belongs to her, to my victim. He looked at his wrist, were there were now a half dozen scars. He looked up at the canvas again. The pattern of drops was... incomplete. He licked his lips and reached out to touch the canvas again. It needed... It needed fresh blood.

He bit his wrist again, a bit less dramatically this time, but hard enough for blood to well up there. With a quick, sharp motion he splattered it across the canvas, the bright red drops contrasting with the dull rust of last night's blood.

But that will fade too. I need... He looked down at the box of paints that sat next to the easel.

He knelt and opened them, and picked up the palette that sat next to them. He pulled out every shade of red he had and started mixing. He held the colors up next to the fresh blood on the canvas, mixing various shades of red until he had one that matched it exactly. Then he got out a brush. But before he touched it to the canvas he realized that he would smear the blood already there, that was only beginning to dry. He needed to let it dry completely, and put a fixative on it. He slid the cover over his palette to keep the paint fresh and wet. Then he picked up his sketchpad. He got out the darkest soft lead pencil he had and started scribbling. Broad strokes quickly defined forms. He sketched out a profile, the girl from last night. Then he scribbled it over. That wasn't right. He tried again, and again, drawing dozens of rough sketches. Abstract shapes seemed to best express what he felt, harsh slashes of black against the creamy paper. Shapes like fangs, like claws, like wings, like streamers of blood in black and white. He looked up from his scribbling to realize that the blood on the canvas had dried. He dug into a box to find a can of spray fixative. He didn't bother to take it outside, he just sprayed the canvas where it stood. When that had dried he got out the palette again. He considered the brilliant blood red, then he shook his head and opened a tube of matte black, and picked up his largest brush. Soon broad, rough strokes slashed across the canvas. He worked slowly, each stroke was quick, harsh even, but he considered their placement carefully. They had to be just right. And they couldn't completely cover up the blood beneath, that needed to show.

Eventually he set the black aside and picked up the red. Now he went slowly indeed. Instead of broad strokes he carefully applied the paint in tiny dabs, looking often at the real blood splattered on the canvas as he did so. As the night drew on the chaos of abstract black shapes was dotted with realistic splatters of bright red that wouldn't fade. He added tiny highlights of white, making the blood shine, and careful shadows added dimension. He finally finished with a long streak, as though one large drop had run down the canvas, that ended in a carefully rendered droplet at the very bottom of the painting.

Finally he set the brush aside and looked at what he had created.

The layered red and rust were bright against the black paint and the white of the canvas. There were no recognizable forms, though there were things that gave the impression of shapes. One might be a curled fetal form. Or perhaps it was just a swirl of paint. There was a hint of wings across the upper third of the canvas, and jagged lines that could be lightning, and others that looked like clawed hands or masses of fangs crossed over the other forms, filling much of the space. It was like nothing he'd ever painted before.

He touched it, feeling that it might not be real. This was art, as the well-rendered but bland scenes that he had painted before had never been. This was catharsis too, was everything he felt, poured out onto the canvas. It was... it was wonderful. He swallowed.

Then he looked at the wall, where a small stack of other canvases stood. He picked up the finished painting and leaned it against the wall. Then he put a second, clean canvas in front of him. It was wonderful, but there was more. That first painting has been for the night before, for the girl whose blood had gone into painting it. But he had been a vampire for more than a year now. There were hundreds of other nights. And he knew one... he knew one that needed expression, that needed to be marked with blood and sealed in canvas. Sealed... Yes. I will put all that happened here, into the canvas, and then maybe it won't haunt me anymore.

He looked down at the box of paints and began to choose his colors.

By the time he finished the second painting dawn had almost arrived. He stood back and looked at it. This one too had started with a spatter of his own blood. Some of the rust-colored droplets had been covered up, but quite a few of them still showed through. Most of the canvas, however, was covered in a loose scribbled texture. Fine lines in a kind of hatched pattern gave the impression of fur, random patches of hide, thin and showing the blood drops beneath in places, strongly colored and opaque in others. The patches of fur were patterned, though the patterns twisted in and out, blending together. Dominating was the vivid orange and black striping of a tiger. Muted brown and gray ticked with darker guard hairs was recognizable as a coyote, and the sleek, patched black and white of a dog finished the piece. And over all that white paint, thinned with acrylic medium so that it would be translucent, and so that it would run and dribble, was splattered generously. An innocent, pure color symbolizing ultimate horror.

Andrew stared at it. It was done, but... he shook his head. The memories were still there. They would not be excised as easily as this. He felt better, yes, but it wasn't enough. He rummaged in his supply box and pulled out a craft knife. He took the protective cover from the razor sharp blade and with a sudden, savage snarl he slashed it across the canvas, leaving a long tear behind it. He dropped the blade to the floor and stood there. That was better, yes. Still not completely laid to rest, perhaps, but better. Then he sighed and set that canvas next to the first. He placed a fresh one on the easel, but dawn was only minutes away. He would paint more tomorrow.

As he lay in bed, waiting until sunlight would bring sleep, he realized that he felt almost peaceful. All the dark thoughts, all the memories of shame and of guilt were still with him, but they were more distant now, less immediate. They were scenes from a story that he had illustrated, pieces of something long past, remembered only in paintings. They no longer felt like something that had happened only yesterday. He sighed softly, relaxing, and he drifted off peacefully, feeling almost as though he might dream.