Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S3 Ep138: Episode 139: Stories of Blood

Episode Date: September 14, 2023

We start tonight with ‘Blood-Red’, an original work by the wonderfully talented Janis Kent, kindly shared with me via Dr. Creepen’s Vault so that I could narrate it here for you all, with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/janiskent/  Today’s second story is ‘The Midnight Blood Drive’, an original work by Mandie Mortemm, also kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta subreddit and read here with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/comments/cvwv25/midnight_blood_drive https://www.reddit.com/user/MandieMortemm/ Our final tale of the weird and macabre is ‘The Blood Canvas’, an original work by Whitix, once again kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and narrated here for you all under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license. https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Blood_Canvas https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Whitix 

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's dungeon for the fear of blood, known as hemophobia. It's a specific phobia that can have various underlying causes. While not everyone is scared of blood, it's not uncommon for some individuals to experience discomfort, anxiety, or fear when they see blood or even think about it. So a fine subject for tonight's three tales of the macabre. Now, as ever before we again, a word of caution.

Tonight's stories may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. The gala had been well attended, thanks to the efforts of his long-time friend Joseph. He considered Joseph only a bit pretentious, and when he'd so generously offered William the use of his art gallery on Julia Street as the venue for his much-anticipated re-entry into the New Orleans art scene, William, gratefully, if not graciously, except.

Joseph had indeed been a good friend, more like a brother, but William had the distinct feeling that this would be the last time his friend would bail him out, the last time Joseph would take it upon himself to promote his work, unless it was well-received, and of course financially lucrative. At one time, not that long ago, the new show by William Bacus would have been crowded with eager buyers. Joseph would have seen a hefty commission from the sale of his friend's works, and William would have experienced a substantial increase in income as well as an inflated ego. One thing that William had never lacked was a healthy ego. Well, that was, until the evening of his new show at the gallery on Julius Street. It was a cool spring

evening and the three-room venue was crowded with throngs of New Orleans's patrons of the arts. The energy in the gallery was palpable, heavy with anticipation and expectation. Would-be buyers, wine-glass in hand, stared intently at each painting and then moved on to another. The excitement began to chill. One could perceive the disappointment of the crowd, although the fake smiles did not betray their dismay, their dismay. Their dashed hopes of finding a new Bacchus painting for the wall of their uptown dining room. The atmosphere in the gallery became almost embarrassing, and the smiling women, clutching the arms of their much-holder husbands, made their way to the doors and disappeared into the New Orleans

night, no doubt to lament the fall of yet another promising artist. The gallery emptied. The walls echoed with sudden silence, the unsold painting screaming the disastrous failure of the evening. Not one painting sold. Not one. William had overheard the chatter. Flat! The older lady with thick, caked on makeup and artificial breasts had lamented. So one-dimensional, another had quitted. What a shame. The handsome gay man had sighed. William was one of the many who departed the show early, trying not to be noticed as he slinked out the double-glass doors onto Julia Street. He headed for the nearest bar.

He had $40 in his wallet. That should be enough for two or three drinks in the trendy warehouse district of New Orleans. He sat, shoulders hunched at the end of the bar, nursing a bloody Mary garnished with a ridiculous amount of vegetables. He recognized with his huge... your sardonic wit, that the damn vegetables took up most of the valuable space in the tall glass, space that could have been used for a little extra vodka. The tomato juice was weak, ugly red, and the liberal dose of Worcester sauce served only to

transform the red into rust, another waste of space that would have been better used for a bit of vodka. Ah, what the fuck, he thought, and ordered a double shot of Stolly. I say, yes, but it would likely do the trick, and without the damn superfluous blood, red tomato juice and obscene green bean garnishes. He shoved the tall glass across the bar with a little too much emphasis, and the remaining rusty red liquid spilled onto the bar, splashing onto the immaculate white sleeve of his best, hand-only dress shirt. Oh, fuck me, he thought, as he eyed the red stain on his sleeve. And then it came to him. So quickly, so easily, so obscenely.

William knew exactly what he should do. He straightened his shoulders, drank the double vodka, and honed his plan. He smiled at the hooker who sat, legs crossed, on one of the high-back leather chairs at the bar. Well, she was obviously out of her league, uncomfortable in this pretentious bar. Her skirt was far too short and her fake fingernails too long. She was thin, possibly from some type of drug use, but that wasn't the problem, he thought. He would wear surgical gloves if need be. He sized her up.

Hmm, she would do, he thought. She'd do nicely. William chatted up the hooker with a charm he didn't know he's still possessed. They were headed towards his French quarter apartment, and he held her arm lightly, as a gentleman would do. Angel couldn't believe her love. She hadn't really thought she would find a John in the fancy bar on Julia Street, and she was desperate, I would have tried just about anything for money. The rent was a week past due, and she hadn't had any blow in three days.

She would do anything, well, just about anything. Now, here she was, clicking her way down Chartres Street in her high-heeled shoes. This almost handsome stranger steering her lightly into the walkway between two big houses. She'd hit the jackpot, she thought, as the stranger with a soft touch guided her into the cobblestone courtyard, flanked on either side by old slave quarters. Well, maybe he wasn't big house-rich, and he still had to have money, as did anyone who could afford. to live in the French Quarter. She felt a tremendous sense of relief

as they climbed the wrought iron stairs to the second floor. She'd be able to pay her rent after all and perhaps have enough cash left over for a little party. It would be a productive night, she thought, relieved and ready for whatever may come. At least she thought she was ready.

William opened the French doors to his apartment and art studio. He'd lived in the upstairs slave quarter for more than ten years, and his rich patroness, who lived in the front house, didn't the heart, or perhaps couldn't be bothered, to raise his rent. His living quarters would be considered lavaged by most, and certainly expansive, assuming most of the upstairs building flanking the left side of the huge, opulent courtyard.

The buildings on the right were only used for storage. He had the privacy he needed for his plan. He gestured his hooker friend toward the sofa and found the last bottle of wine hiding in the cupboard. He poured the red liquid into two crystal wine glasses purchased from Adler's on Canal Street when the city was affluent as he had been. His guest was impressed. Well, let her enjoy herself a bit while she can, he thought, and smiled. He refilled her glass, having barely.

touched his drink. Oh, she should know better, being in her line of work, William used. She should know never to let her guard down, especially when working. She sighed and rested her head against the green velvet throw pillow. Her eyes closed. Angel awoke to find her hands bound to the headbolt. Her blouse had been removed, but she was otherwise fully dressed. There was a dull burning sensation on her forearm where William had sliced into her flesh, draining what he could collect of her blood. It was a start, he thought, but he would need more. Angel began to sob. Let me go, she tried to scream, but her throat was so parched she only managed to croat. The classic scene in every slasher film, William thought with a sick, sardonic smile.

you do to me?" Angel managed to ask. She knew she was in trouble. Was her John one of those ridiculous pseudo-vampires who roam the city, thinking themselves ageless if they sipped a few drops of blood mixed in with their expensive chardonnay? She instinctively knew this was different from a one-night vampire bloodlet. This felt heavy in morose, and for the first time in her somewhat successful career as a hooker, Angel was frightened. She was terrified. Shut up, the John demanded as he plastered a piece of duct tape over Angel's dry, cracked lips. It was dark in the large, lush room, which had served as William's guest room when he'd been popular enough to warrant overnight visitors. The room had sat empty for months now, and, although

somewhat musty, it would be his guest's new home, at least for as long as he could bleed her. William hadn't really thought past that. The first letting had been comparatively easy. It had gone well. He simply cut the hooker's arm deeply enough to elicit a nice flow of blood and captured it as well as he could in another clean, crystal wine-glass. He gleaned almost an inch of thick burgundy blood and carried it devoutly into his studio. He would paint tomorrow. He would create paintings that will come alive in depth and color,

and of course in content. Well, he wasted half an inch of the burgundy blood, trying to paint it directly onto his canvas. It was beautiful for the first five or ten minutes, but then turned an ugly, rusty brown upon extended exposure to oxygen. He spent most of that day mixing the remainder of the blood in the wine-glasses with acrylic colours he'd always used and began to panic when his efforts depleted the red liquid in the glass. He didn't really want to spend his time today,

bleeding the girl in his guestroom. William was more than a little irk that this morning had been spent in the trivial task of having to feed the girl, and then go into Walgreens to purchase adult diapers and protein drinks. He sighed as he mixed the last of the precious liquid with a lipstick red from one of his hundreds of acrylic chews, adding only the tiny smithing of blue, bird purple. As soon as the pigments began to mingle, William knew he had succeeded. Ah, the concoction was beautiful, and it glided onto the canvas like melted butter. He named his new colour, blood red. The first painting was a reclining nude, her arm stretched back over her head. of course he didn't paint the chains that held her arms at length neither did he paint the face of his captive he painted a bare chest and turned head her thin arms extended her body twisted in what might be misinterpreted as ecstasy he reminded william of bernini's ecstasy of st teresa a face of pleasure and pain or perhaps joan of arc at the post as she cast her eyes toward the heavens and embraced the flames what you know what you know

name he asked the hooker chain to the bend he'd lower the chains so she would bleed better he'd been using her arms as a matter of convenience fuck you angel managed to whisper time for dinner he said ignoring her remark soup okay he asked as he sat a tray on the end table next to the bed he unlocked the chain holding her right wrist and allowed her to eat and drink to her content He tried to feed her high-proteam meals, and at first she'd eaten what he profit. Today, she lay silent and still on the vinyl-covered bed. It had taken her a while, but she'd finally figured out his game. Oh, he was worse than a pervert.

He was going to bleed her dry, and then what? Kill her? William had begun to wonder the same thing. Lately she'd become difficult to bleed from the arms and hands. He'd carefully avoided any veins, not wanting a complete bleed-out in one cut. Should he start on the legs now? And then, what? Please, just let me go.

I won't tell anyone about you. Please, she begged. Oh, God. How many times have we heard that in a bad movie? William said, and stifled a laugh. This is real life, man. I'm scared. I'm telling you the truth. I'll never say a word.

Just let me go. Angel pleaded. I'll let you go when we're done. William promised. Now, eat your suit. Maybe tomorrow, if you're good. Angel ate the suit. His energy coursed through her weakened body,

and she thought maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this nightmare. She knew that she was being bled, but she had no idea why she wasn't sure how much longer she'd be of use to this madman. His painting was done. It was near perfect. He would do another and another. He worked with an energy he hadn't had since he was a young successful artist.

One destined for greatness, one critic had written in the, well, whatever magazine. That had been almost ten years ago. He'd somehow slipped out of grace during those years of drinking and partying and having every woman he wanted. He'd forgotten how to paint. His offering stayed unsold, and he was all but ostracized from the big art events around town. Yeah, well, all that's going to change, he thought. They've never seen anything like this. He'd call his new show Ecstasy.

So William Bled Angel for his next painting. He carefully mixed blood and paints and began his next piece. He'd all but begged Joshua for one more chance and had taken his first piece entitled Angel to the gallery in an effort to persuade his friend for space. Joshua had studied the painting for less than a minute and had acquiesced. William would have his show in two months and open on white linen night. Angel had stopped eating. and she'd stopped peeing into the diaper that he'd provided for her.

She'd apparently stopped all bodily functions, with the exceptions of sleeping and breathing. It was obvious to William, that he would soon need another source. So he dug a makeshift grave in the flower bed that sprouted gardenias and jasmine in the back corner of the courtyard, an unceremoniously dumped angel and her meagre belongings into the hole. He wasn't sure if she'd completely stopped breathing. he didn't want to know he was manic his mind laser focused

on her replacement that shouldn't be too difficult he thought there were plenty of two-bit hookers in New Orleans girls just trying to get by girls who were lost to the underbelly of the city stray cats prowling the night

angel felt the soft earth hitting her face her torso her legs she lay still her breath shallow. Her purse lay over her face, providing an inch or so of breathing space and the dirt of the flower bed was soft and porous.

William was in a hurry and covered the body with about a foot of loose soil. He dampened it with his foot and left her there, either dead or surely dying. When Angel heard his footsteps fade, she wheeled a single finger to borrow upward into the loose soil. She poked through the dirt

and saw a dim remnant of daylight filtering through the crumbling soil. Fresh, sweet air trickled into her tomb. She breathed, but she lay still. She waited. She watched the last of the winter sun fade through the tiny hole. Darkness enveloped her, and when she finally saw the dim light from the man's apartment go dark, she slowly began to claw. The dirt gave her.

way fairly easily and she climbed out at the shallow gray laying motions under the cold damp earth for six hours but given angel plenty of time to think she decided not to run to the police they would lightly sigh and take a report but simply chalk the incident up to the hazards of being a hooker no instead angel had hatched a plan and that plan was what gave her the strength she needed to rise from her grave angel stood her stiff legs threatening to buckle. She drank gruelly from the forcet over the sink in the laundry room and felt her legs steady a bit.

Watching the windows of the man's apartment, she washed herself, careful not to make a sound, managing to remove most of the residual soil from her body. She carefully navigated her way through the maze of greenery and onto the cobblestone courtyard. She quickened her barefoot pace through the water, walkway and saw the wrought iron gate that led to Shatra Street. She half walked, half ran the blocks to her by-water studio, uncovered the key from its hiding place and fell onto her bed.

She'd been held and bled for exactly two weeks. The middle-aged landlady, Alma, took one look at angel and almost screamed. Alma had climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor apartment with every intention of chastising her young tenant about the late rent payment. But after seeing the girl and hearing the horrific count of Angel's two-week absence, Alma gently chided the child for not going to the hospital. She cleaned and dressed Angel's wounds as well as she could. For the next few weeks, she fed her young tenant healthy stews and juices and sat at her bedside.

Alma insisted Angel stay in bed and not worry about the rent. It's my gift to you, Alma insisted. Angel cried from relief and from joy. It was the first gift she'd ever received. William rented a room and gave the front desk, Clark, a hundred dollar bill for the room and another hundred for his discretion. It was an older hotel in the back section of the quarter,

and one of the few that was not blanketed with the eyes of security cameras. The older man dressed in black who opened the front door, doubled as a bellman and security guard. It was not unusual for rooms to be rented by the hour or two. The desk clerk handed the bellman one of his crisp bills, keeping the other for himself, and then went back to surfing the internet on the hotel computer. Room key in hand, William headed to the hotel bar. He ordered a vodka on the rocks and waited. He didn't have to wait very long.

So, what's your name? William asked the petite blonde who'd been eyeing him for at least ten minutes. Bluebird! The blonde answered Sincinn. Cut the crap, William said as he handed her the gin gimlet for which she'd asked. Diane, the hooker answered. Not that it's any of your business, but my name's Diane. Well, if it's okay with you, I'm...

I had liked to get to know you a little better. I sort of liked knowing who I take into my bed if you know what I mean. William Sikty's Valker and managed to smile just enough to see him genuine. He wanted to be a little bit more certain that she was a loner, as were most of the working girls. I don't have any diseases if that's what you mean, she answered. Neither do I, William said. He had no idea. if he had any diseases or not. He was, after all, New Orleans. Are you from here? William asked,

once again attempting innocent conversation. No, Mobile. He'd been here six months. You want to know my shoe size too? Diane's irritation raised a red flag for William, and he realized he should back off. He began telling her about his job and how he needed another three accounts before he could return. turn to Memphis. He realized then that he was a fluent liar. Oh, you're a good-looking guy, Diane noted. Why would you need to pay for sex? She asked. Now you're the one that's getting personal, William quimt. Let's just say I'm into some things that the girls I know in Memphis can't appreciate. So, want to come with me or not? He asked, pretending to be a tiny bit annoyed. sure Diane said let's go it's two hundred an hour hundred more of her kinky stuff william was pretty certain she'd never gotten over a hundred in her life but said two hundred it is he didn't want to scare her all

diane proved to be more savvy than angel she refused the wine william offered but acquiesced to the handcuffs after counting the three hundred dollars and stuffing the crisp bills into her cheap She'd seen pretty much everything in the six months she'd hooked in New Orleans, and being handcuffed to a bed was comparatively vanilla, and pulled out the large syringe she'd obtained from the medical supply place on Tulane. Whoa, wait a minute, what's that? Diane demanded. Shut up and be still. I'm just going to draw some bloods.

Now, we can do it the hard way and the easy way. Diane was not in a position to argue and let her left arm be loosened from the calf. The man obviously had no prior experience in drawing blood, and after four failed attempts, he finally hit a good vein. The large syringe filled quickly. He undid the remaining locksand, without saying a word, she put her shirt back on and left, clutching her bag to her chest. It was 2 a.m., on a weeknight, in the streets of the court, quarter were hollow and empty, save for the homeless man on the corner. She called for an Uber, but no one responded, so she walked hurriedly to her apartment on St. Claude, trying to forget

this night and silently promising herself to get a real job. William had enough supply now to finish his final works for the gallery. His last piece, he thought, was his masterpiece. A blonde woman, body supine, one arm sheltering her forehead. The other extended towards something outside the canvas, at first glance, laying upon what looked to be a blood-red velvet-covered bed. Upon a more careful inspection of the painting, however, one began to question whether she lay enveloped in red velvet or in her own blood. It was the perfect visual illusion, and of this William was extraordinarily proud. It was his piesta resistance. And Joseph agreed.

This show would no doubt be divine, absolutely breathtaking. Angel had stayed alive in her grave by thinking about the revenge she would exact upon her kidnapper. She would haunt him, she thought. She would drug the vodka he kept in the freezer. She would enter his bedroom at night, stand over him and then disappear into the night. A shadow, a ghost. She would drive him insane, haunting him until he cut his wrists or blew his head off with a gun. She knew he had one. He'd threatened her with it often enough. He'd almost robbed her of her life.

She was alive, and for that she was grateful. But she could never forget those horrific two weeks he'd kept her prisoner, chained and cut at will, his personal blood bank. In the weeks that followed her escape from the madman's grasp, She'd changed her plans. She hadn't wanted a chance that the arsehold would check her last resting place. She thought he was too much of a coward, but she had to be certain. She'd been out one evening, one of the first that Alma had allowed her out alone, and she'd seen him. She stood stock still, staring across the park until he had seen her.

Once she was certain, once they'd locked eyes, she found her way. down Frenchman Street and disappeared into one of the side streets. He tried to follow her to prove to himself that it was a simple case of mistaken identity, but she'd escaped him easily this time. He must have been mistaken, he told himself. He had to have been mistaken. Within a month or so, Angel was well enough to attend white linen night, a huge event in the always eventful city. It was a night of snow white fashion and gallery crawls, especially on St. Claude and in the Warehouse District. Julia Street was particularly a wash in wine. The gallery was packed.

William charmed his guests, all of whom were gushing with compliments and accolades. His broad smile was as white as his colourless linen shirt. He was a striking figure, posing in front of one of his blood, red paintings, a vision in white shirt and trousers, absolutely stunning. He shook hands, smiled, quipped, and accepted the exorbitant praise of his patrons. Across the snow-white sea of bodies, William saw the girl who had evaded him that day on Frenchman Street. Again, she stood motionless, not fawning over his paintings as were so many, but staring across the room directly at him. He moved gracefully through his admirers and weaved his way across to the

crowded room, adamant that he would not lose sight of this woman again. He had to know that she was simply a look-alike, not a ghost. No one noticed when the slight, dark-haired woman in white stood directly in front of William, smiling wily. No one noticed when she drew the knife from her white glove and shoved it with all her might into William's guns. No one saw her twist it left and right, and then withdraw it and slip it back into the glove she held so demurely. She easily made her way through the white cloud of the crowd and out at the door. She was already in another gallery on the block by the time William collapsed onto the floor, holding his hands over the blood-red stain that crawled over his white shirt and trousers.

An ambulance was called. William was rushed to the grace of God Hospital on Canal Street, where surgeons and the Eustach worked for over 12 hours on the man who had lost so much blood. It was touch and gold. The gallery sold every one of his paintings within two hours. Should William die, his paintings would double in price within the day. Should he survive, William would be a very rich man. This was good news for, as he did indeed survive, thanks to the skilled surgeons who pieced his stomach back together.

It was, in fact, excellent news, for William would need lots of money to pay for his medical care, the cost of which would quickly cancel out any proceeds from the sale of his paintings. William had become painfully thin. His clothing sagged in a most unbecoming manner. He had survived the vicious and unprovoked attention. but his stomach had been severely and irreparably damaged. He had a difficult, if not impossible time ingesting enough nutrients to sustain him, and consequently he was severely anemic.

Yes, the artist would require extensive and continue treatment for the remainder of his life. The Midnight Blood Drive. Let me tell you the true tale of a midnight blood drive. Well, I'm sure at least some of you have seen the mobile set up where you can donate blood. They're most commonly run by the American Red Cross, but there are many others whom are legitimate as well. However, in this case, things are very, very different. Let me start at the beginning. Well, for the sake of anonymity, names aren't relevant here, but all you need to know is I'm female and I live in Florida.

It all started one evening when my husband and I set out. on a trip to the local Walmart. I cringe any time I even think of going to that place. I enjoy eating and sadly it's the best place our town offers to get groceries. So there we were at Walmart.

Around 11pm because my husband had worked late. It was muggy and humid as ever, even though it was still early spring at the time. As we made our way inside, a petite woman with curly dark hair along with a very tall, very built man who looked most of.

stranger to weightlifting, approached us. They were both wearing teal-colored scrubs, which I immediately thought was kind of odd. Not because of the color, but just the fact that they were wearing scrubs in general. The woman was all smiles and spoke first. She kindly asked us if we'd like to donate blood, and then gestured us to a long bus

which was located across the parking lot. I hadn't even noticed it when we passed. For a moment I was not. lost for words but politely muttered no thank you my husband piped in and also said maybe next time something that surprised me was as soon as i declined their offer the woman's wide smile dropped dangerously into a frown in fact she and the man immediately turned away swiftly and went to other people who were also making their way into the entrance of the superstore feeling a bit weird and off-puts we went about going inside to start the daunting process of food shopping. For a short time, the occurrence ran through my mind. The area we live in is certainly no stranger to a diverse plethora of people from different backgrounds. Even so, the thick accents the pair had seemed to be not from around our town.

That mixed with the fact that there was a blood drive going on at night and at a Walmart of all places, it kind of blew my mind. It was definitely weird and not something I'd seen before. honestly I chalked it up to the fact that it was Florida and strange stuff seems to happen here on the regular about an hour had gone by once we collected what we needed and made it through the backed-up checkout lines sure enough as we loaded the groceries into our car the blood drive was still in service I could tell because a couple of people exited the bus brandishing fresh bandages on their arms on the ride home my husband and I made jokes about how outlandish it was that a blood drive was going on at midnight.

But it was probably vampires preying on unsuspecting victims, who at first willingly go to donate blood, and end up getting more than they bargained for. And after a few days, we forgot about it to be quite frank. A week passed by, and this time my husband needed to pick up a few things he wanted. I wasn't real keen on going to the store, but I went anyway just to get out of the house. This trip was earlier in the evening.

I'd say around 7 p.m. He pulled into the Walmart parking lot and surprisingly enough that damn blood bus was there again. Once my husband had parked the car, we went inside and I opted to stay behind. I leaned my chair back, laid down and started scrolling through Twitter on my phone.

Every now and then I glanced up and watches different people came and went to the bus since I had a direct line of sight to it this time. My husband had parted in the same row, so our car was adjacent to the lengthy peculiar automobile. The outside of it was painted bright blue, and on the side and in the centre was one large red blood drop along with the company's name, which I won't disclose. My mind started to go off into one of its tangents of curiosity. Maybe it was sheer boredom, or maybe the Florida heat had impaired my rational thought. But I really wanted to see inside that bus.

My window was rolled down, so when I heard someone exit the bus and say, Let's take a 30-minute break and meet back here then. I saw the pair who'd approached us last night, as well as another man. He was tall and appeared to be middle-aged from what I could tell. Unlike the other two who were in scrubs, he had on a crisp white coat resembling what some doctors liked to wear. All three of them walked off in the direction of some surrounding restaurants. At this point, I've been watching the bus intently for quite some time and knew that this was my chance.

In a flash I exited the car and darted the short distance to the shiny steel door of the bus. I was a bit apprehensive as my hand went to reach for the handle, but I'd come too far now to turn back. Though my adrenaline was slightly starting to pump, I reasoned with myself that if anyone was still inside, I'd pretend to be interested in donating. Having that as my cover story gave me newfound confidence and with that I proceeded forward. The door handle gave way easily much to my advantage and after taking a deep breath I peered inside the bus with caution. Just as I thought it looked to be empty and void of any human life. Knowing the coast was clear, I climbed the two steps until I was completely inside. My eyes went into overdrive as they analysed the inner side.

surroundings. The place appeared to be what your average blood donation set up would look like. The walls were a bright white, which cost a clean and sterile visual appearance. Several posters also lit of the walls depicting the importance of blood donation. Some stainless steel counters, along with matching cabinets, lined one side of the bus, while the other side contained two leather upholstered chairs. Typical things you'd see in any and most clinical operations. nearly satisfied that everything seemed copacetic and that nothing more sinister was going on behind the scenes I made my way towards the door to leap suddenly I heard voices outside which sounded like they were headed my way art felt like it was going to leap into my throat as panic took over I darted my eyes wildly around the room

looking for an alternate means of exit or a place to hide slight relief gripped me as I spotted a long set of cabinets on the far end of the bus. My feet made quick work across the expanse of the bus floor as I whipped open the cabinet to find it was filled with scrubs and lab coats hung neatly by clothes hangers. The sound of the bus door handled being pulled, radiated in my ears, and with seconds to spare, I wedged myself in behind the clothing and closed the cabinet door. The bus started to shake slightly as the voices echoed from outside of the cabinets. Even though it was risky, I quietly cracked open the door to my hiding place so that I could see what was happening.

The middle-aged man from before was ushering a woman, who I guess was in her mid-30s, over to one of the leather chairs. They were accompanied by the woman with curly hair who'd originally asked if I'd like to donate. and she made swift work in making the woman comfortable by setting her purse to the side and asking if she'd like a drink of water. The man whom we'll call doctor for the sake of the story grabbed a ball of cotton and began to apply a clear solution from a bottle. He gently took the woman's arm and a pleasant voice said, just sanitising the area a bit first. There we go. He then walked over to one of the counters and began preparing the needle, or so I thought. during this time I noticed the curly-haired assistant had moved over to the door of the bus

and just took a position there as if she was on guard. All this sent red flags up in my mind, but I figured maybe she's just squeamish when it comes to blood draws, despite it being her occupation. It was around this time I noticed the state of the woman in the chair. She'd leaned her head back as her body looked limp and fully relaxed, a bit too relaxed in all honesty. The most unsettling part was her eyes. They were extremely open wide and transfixed in front of her like she was lost in a daze, catatonic even. I was starting to get very uncomfortable. Something wasn't right here, and I was trapped in the confines of the cabinet

and in the middle of everything. Suddenly the most horrific noises emanated from the doctor in what I could only describe as the sound of someone asphyxating. Strained groans and a sputtering noise barreled from within its throats. In a flash his coat and shirt was shed on the ground, fully exposing his upper half. Its fair tone complexion was now a vivid dark grey like that of burnt coal. Deep ridges littered his skin and were rough and looked cracked in appearance. Something akin to the consistency of sandpaper, would imagine.

His salt and pepper hair now lay matted against his hands. I gasped inwardly as my sight fell upon his ears. They'd morphed into some kind of horn monstrosity which stretched upwards toward the ceiling. Hastily, I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and tried to keep my now highly erratic breathing quiet. Every bone in my body kept wanting to go into flight mode, but I knew that that was not. not a wise idea. Against all smart thought and better judgment, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene before me. Things escalated within seconds as the doctor's mouth went agape and opened in an unnaturally wide fashion. A slender, foot-long tongue extended from within the cavern of his mouth

and immediately latched onto the forearm of this dazed woman. Loud suction noises threatened to deafen me. I covered my ears with my hands in an attempt to shield them from the pain, and even so I watched on intensely like some perverted voyeur. With each drawer of blood from the doctor's wretched tongue in her skin, his veins began to pulse and protrude beneath the surface of his darkened epidermis. They were a bright crimson red whose intensity grew with each sickening suck. An involuntary gasped escaped from my mouth as an immense fear overtook me. It must have been louder than I thought because the doctor, or rather the now-blood-crazed

being, whipped his head in my direction. As his eyes scanned my vicinity, I saw they were crimson red as well, all except for the pupils. They were as black as tar and dilated, giving off a visceral, inhuman visage. I backed into the cabinet as far as I could Or the words Holy fuck Tor from my lips

The mad doctor then let out a high-pitched screech That will never be forgotten As he stormed towards me With the assistant closely behind him My fingers pinched circles Into my skin frantically in hopes that I was dreaming However the violent thud of my heart Against my ribcage assured me

That I was indeed a wait I was trapped and soon to be the next victim in whatever literal suck fest these people were into footsteps thundered my way as the bus rocked as a result of the movement

with one last diaglance I saw the doctor's hand outstretched and sharp black nails grasped the cabinet door I screamed as it was flung open fiercely exposing me completely the loud slamming of a car door woke me

and ripped me back to consciousness. I shot up into a sitting position in the passenger seat, covering sweat as my lungs worked desperately to capacitate the rapid breaths as a result. My mind was in a disoriented condition, but made quick work trying to lift the thick fog of confusion. I had been dreaming. I was certain of that much,

and the realization gave me slightly enough comfort to ease the state of panic that I overcome. Being back in the realm of reality was nice, but the dream, rather the nightmare, as one might call it, left me feeling unsettled. So many thoughts and questions searched through my mind like a speeding locomotive. I was taken from these thoughts by the sound of my husband's concerned, yet subtle voice, asking, Well, are you all right? Up until that point, I hadn't realized I must have given him quite a fright. The look of alarm on his face was a dead giveaway that my assumptions were correct.

I'd been sitting there in utter silence, staring off into the void, covered in a thick sheen of sweat and breathing heavily. No wonder he was worried. I did my best to ease his concern by chuckling awkwardly, as I then assured him, I'm fine, dear. Just had a really strange dream as all. You know me. He looked me over as one of his eyebrows quirked slightly high. higher than the other. This was the look he'd always give while he observed things with intense

thought. Okay then. You ready to go? It's hot as fuck, he stated more than asked as he started the engine. With a sarcastic laugh I joked. Yeah, well, it's Florida. This was a long-time joke between us, ever since we'd come to live here a few years ago. I kept pretty silent on the ride home, just watching the scenery whipped by the window as my mind trailed down a rabbit hole of thought once more. I've always been the type to have a very vivid imagination and always like analysing things, pondering over different outcomes to situations or them having possible theoretical conspiracies has become a strange hobby for me. What will lose me the most and is at the centre of my curiosity is what the hell is really going on? The entire thing is the entire. The entire

thing just seems really bizarre to me. Once we made it back home, I took some time to do a little online research. I looked up the name that was presented on the side of the blood bus in question. To my surprise, not very much was offered about it on the multiple search engines I tried. Luckily enough, there was a link to their main headquarters. Turns out that it's located a full four hours south of our town. The building itself is a storefront property in the business district. All the front windows as well as the doors are entirely covered by decals with the company logo. Any chances of seeing what's concealed inside are impossible. Overall, the place looks peculiar, especially with the set of six security cameras perched on top of the building

outside. Scenarios have flashed through my head that, or if it's some kind of cult who goes to great lengths to have a plentiful amount of blood for their rituals. And what if it's people with a vampire roleplay fetish that have taken it to the extreme? Well, it could just be a true, legitimate blood donation operation that helps people. It does make one question about how easy it would be to fake something like that. With great effort put forth and a hidden agenda, almost anyone could but together such a ruse to con unsuspecting people. We may never learn the truth behind the midnight blood drive,

but that's just a thing the not knowing is what still haunts me even to this day well it has been said that sometimes you change your mind but on other occasions it's the mind that changes you well a word of caution about tonight's tale

although a work of fiction it uses allegory to discuss some pretty upsetting everyday occurrences and feelings that we all have if that sounds like something that might bother you and tonight's story may not be your cup of tea. For those that remain intrigued, let's begin. The Blood Canvas.

Day 1. The world has changed. Suttly, over time, it didn't happen overnight. I figured it'd be a good idea to tell my story, mostly to keep myself sane. I don't even know where to start. I'm new to all this recording, expressing my thoughts. It's just, well, I need someone or something to talk to.

I need someone to understand the hell I've found myself in. The sun went out yesterday, turned into a ball of grey, cloaking the world in hues of black and white. Even my own skin has taken on a lovely shade of pale, pale white. Not that it's much different than the previous shade. It's better even. Now I feel just like everyone else. Let's talk about everyone else. they're gone

they've been replaced by unthinking shelves with their former selves it was rather distressing at first watching my friends no peers don't have friends watching them slowly change

I'd say they withered away but if my lacklusted parents ever taught me anything it was not to lie so I won't lie they didn't wither they grew their arms grew down to their feet and their bodies lost

all of their fat and hair. Their skin sagged due to the lost fat at first, but then slowly grew and stretched slightly across their bodies, turned bleach white in the process. The face in particular had an interesting reaction. The skin grew over their mouths, ears and noses, leaving two unblinking eyes and a skinny hunk of flesh masquerading as a body. Well, they're naked too. I'm not sure why. They lack any sexual organs, as if they're reverted to an asexual state. They just refuse to wear clothes. Maybe it's a form of evolution. Maybe they no longer require clothing. Maybe it's supposed to mean something. Or maybe they just want to fuck with me. I always wondered how they sustain themselves, choose their lack of a mouth,

or how they communicate with each other. I don't think they can do either. I've never witnessed it. Nope. They just go about their former daily routines, unthinking, they don't usually show any malicious or hostile intent. They're just content to go on with their lives. They do get upset when I break my routine, though, so I go about it whenever I'm in their presence. I've taken to calling them drones, but I believe it fits the figure quite nicely. When I first noticed the change, I was understandably panicked.

I'd walked downstairs, expecting to see my mother and sister eating breakfast, but instead found two drones in their place. I screamed and ran, only to see two more crawl from separate doorways, and just stare at me. It dawned on me that this must have been my former family, and I rushed to a mirror. To my horror I was still the same person, and now I'm an outcast, the only normal human are wash in a sea of brainless husks. So it's not that different than the previous world. Of course, that's not all that's changed.

And the ground has turned to flesh, literally, that's the best way to describe it. The ground is now pale flesh, matching the colour of my skin. I first noticed when I stepped outside and surprisingly found myself sinking into the ground, as if I was wading through much. Upon closer examination, I found it to be rather warm and firm, yet it's still easily tall. I cut it on the ground, not my skin. Can't imagine doing that. Well, in an attempt to dig down and to see what lies beneath the skin.

It bled, and the blood was actually red. That's the only other colour I've seen besides white and black. I figured it had some significance, so I found a shovel and dug into the ground even more. It was like striking a geyser, crimson blood spurted from the wound, covering the surrounding area. I couldn't go very deep.

The skin's just the surface. There's a network of something down there, but I can't penetrate the surface. Nor do I have reason to. There's no possibility of escape. I've taken to calling this world the blood canvas, as blood is the only thing that has colour anymore in this world of black and grey. My digging did draw the attention of a good amount of drones. Who they were formerly in, what they were doing near my home, I have no idea.

I surrounded me and I had the choice to either fight them off or run. I ran. I'm a coward, always have been. I ran from my problems before and I continue to run from them now. Old habits die hard. Oh God, I'm trapped here. As I mentioned earlier, I'm stuck in a routine from my former life. I wake up, go to school.

Yes, I still go to school. It's somewhat humorous, a bunch of drugs. and I sit in a classroom, sitting silently, staring straight ahead. Still not any different from the old world. Come home and go to bed at a reasonable hour. The whole things are farce. I gain absolutely nothing from the experience, and the drones seem not to care the least when I'm following it.

But heaven forbid I break my routine for just a minute. That's when things get interesting. If I do one thing out of the ordinary from my past life, and previously harmless drones will gather around and swarm me. I'll stare at me, eyes open wide, their entire body's twitching and vibrating. I can't tell if they're trying to communicate in some bizarre way, or genuinely upset at my breakage from the cycle.

One time I tried walking towards one to coax a reaction from it, but the whole crowd shifted around me, so I was always the centre of attention. God, I hated that. Honestly, though, I have no idea if they're intention. are hostile or not. I'll never let them get past the twitching stage. I break down and return to my routine,

and the drones gradually dissipate, satisfied with my actions. I'm stuck in a non-conformist's hell. Christ, I sound like every edgy teen out there. Well, that's what I thought this place was at first. A former purgatory designed to punish me by forcing me through the old world's daily cycle. But pergatory would have a reason for

being right. There is no purpose of the blog canvas, no reason for being here. Day two. Today was a bit worse than yesterday. I was strolling around the blood canvas, going about my normal school routine when I came across another foreign entity. This one was not like the drones, it was capable of thought and had definite hostile intent. I call it the hangar for reasons that will become obvious in a moment. We had the basic appearance of a drone, long arms, a skinny, almost anorexic body, and pale white skin.

His left arm was missing, its place was a messy red stub attached to a long, crimson rope-like appendage, which ended in a noose. The hangar had a long, protruding neck, cracked in the middle to the left, so that its head rested on its own shoulder. The chain was wrapped around the bottom of the neck,

coiled down its right arm. It actually had a face. His mouth was stuck in a perpetual grin, and above it laid a pair of bloated eyes. The nose dripped red, bringing some colour to the bland face. Strangely, its right arm was covered in stitches, sometimes torn open,

revealing a nasty, crimson wound underneath. The final difference was that the hanger was not asexual like the drugs. It was definitely male, but it was still naked, like the drums. What I'm getting at is that its penis was exposed to. I could see that its tip was red and I honestly didn't want to look further to find out why. I'm sure you understand. None of the drones noticed the hangar. I tried to ignore it too, pushing the thought of it to the back of my mind in the hopes that it would ignore me. It didn't. Instead it followed me around the

grey school campus, smiling, waving its noose and pointing at me. There was something about the hangar that seemed strangely alluring. I couldn't tell you why. This thing was inhuman and so sickly, but its naked form was so... Never mind, forget that part. There was something strangely familiar about the hangar, like I'd seen it before, but never took it seriously. I don't know why it chose to manifest itself now. I was sitting alone, eating lunch, watching it about 30 feet away when it decided to actually do something.

It pointed at the nearest drone, signalled its downfall, swung its noose and lusuit, well, for lack of a better term, it lusued the drone. The drone was taken by surprise. The noose tightened around its neck, and the drone began to panic, making a loud, muffled sound, of which I assume was a scream. The hangar dragged the drone by its neck to a tree with surprising strength. The noose looked decaying and frayed, hardly stable, and grabbed the drones, twitching head with a tree.

its free hand. The hangar then threw the drone over a low, yet stable branch, acting as a pulley. The drone began to rise, making a louder sound and clawing at the noose around his neck. I just sat and watched the poor drone get lynched. Streaks of red flowed from the drone's neck. I assumed the hangar's noose was barbed or something. It was horrifying yet strangely beautiful, watching the red flow into the white blankness of the world. I didn't have time to admire the queer beauty of the scene. The hangar waited until the drone was silent and dangling, released it, and began walking towards me.

Now, I'd been reasonably calm watching the drone get hung. After all, it was a brainless shell, brought back to reality seconds too late. But the thought of me being lynched flooded my mind with fear and panic. I'd waited too long. The hangar was closing in. I'd been sitting on what's previously. a patch of grass, now turned to flesh. The flesh ground was unavoidable. I found grass flesh to be softer than the hardened flesh that replaced the concrete. I got up to run. My shoe dug too much into the flesh and I ended up falling and tearing a patch into the ground. Fresh crimson ooze

slowly out of the ground's wound, and the hangar stopped its advance to ponder this new development. I was still on the ground, in pain, realizing that I'd skin my knee. was bleeding. The hangar was above me, its ankles now tinted red as it stood in the ground's wound. I began to sense a feeling of pure joy, not joy, acceptance. I realize how strange that sounds, but it was still true nonetheless. The pain of this world and the previous world would finally be over. My salvation was finally at hand. I accepted my fate and waited for the cold, rough noose to close around my neck. choking to death wasn't my primary choice of death but it would suffice well obviously it never came since we're both here right now no the hanger decided that it didn't like something about me i looked up as it stood over me its pale naked body reeked of decomposition i got a better view of the creature not that i really wanted to its skin was rougher than that of the drones some patches had rotted away entirely leaving a mess of blood

black and grey in their place. Hair grew in patches all over its body. Some areas natural, some unnatural. Blood was dripping under the ground in front of me. I forced myself to see why. The head of its genitals was cut down the middle, causing the red splotch I'd seen earlier, and now it was dripping before me.

It too was covered in stitches like its arm. Some were also torn open. Looking back, out the image is still unnerving and makes me question my own sexuality well i know i know we'll talk about that a later day so it probably has something to do with this whole situation but right now i just want to talk about this beast i cringed waiting for the hangar to make its move instead it stood there staring at me the perpetual grin began to fade replaced by a look of horror i looked at its crooked face and tried to follow its eyes. It appeared to be staring at the wound on my knee, as if afraid

of it. The peculiar thought entered my head. It feared my blood. This was the only conclusion. I'd surely have been hung by now, if not for the sudden shock of pain and the aftermath. The hangar began to back away as more of the red flowed from my knee, and I began to grow more confident. I'd finally found my defence, in the form of my own. own flesh. Why this was, I still have no idea. It makes no sense, really, then again, nothing makes sense in this world. Still, with this new knowledge, I dug my fingers into my wound and began to tear, ripping the scratch apart and allowing more blood to flow through. And actually, the pain was already fading, replaced by a feeling of elation and power.

The hangar was a good distance away. I stood up and started walking towards it, showing the blood on my hands. Drones, too, began to mass around us, glancing back and forth between us two. They made no move, instead choosing to simply stare. Interestingly, they didn't show any remorse towards their fellow drone that lay suffocated behind them. I suppose they don't have any feelings for one another, unless united against a common cause. I started walking towards the hangar, and it let out a shriek, Its mouth now fully agape. And then it ran, as simple as that. It was afraid of my blood.

Well, for some reason I have no desire to question why, and had fled the premise. I returned to my spot of sitting and resumed eating lunch, satisfied that I was safe for the time being. When lunchtime was up, I walked over to where the drone had been hung and examined its corpse. His eyes were now shut, creating a face of, pure flesh. I could see the spiral of red around its neck and saw that it indeed had come from

multiple holes in its neck. I left it there. Some of the drone would surely come upon it and clean it up. I haven't seen the hangar since. It's probably too afraid to show its face now. But why be afraid of blood? Obviously blood is important in this world. It's the only thing that has colour. Fascinating. Utterly fascinating. Perhaps I'll click more from the flesh ground and study it, away from the drones, of course. That's the other thing. The drones are hiding something. I know it.

Maybe they're like a hive mind or something. There's just something off about them. More so than the fact that they're walking sculptures of skin. No, I don't want to discuss this any further. It's been a long, tiring day, and we can talk tomorrow. Day three. I know what you're thinking, but not. I want to talk about another event like yesterday.

Trust me, it does wonders to get this out of my head. I come downstairs for breakfast, expecting to see the drones of my former family members waiting for me. Instead, I saw a large, bloated mass rummaging through the kitchen drawers. I didn't react to my presence at first. I knew that this thing was hostile. The hangar had been the only unique thing in the world so far, and this thing was on course with how disgusting it was. so I grabbed a knife off the kitchen counter and started walking towards the mass,

which I saw to resemble an incredibly obese and disfigured person. He stood on two legs and was bent over, looking through the shells. His buttocks shoved straight in the air towards me. It wasn't a pretty sight. This thing was fat, inhuman, and I swear I could see its skin occasionally ripple and gurgle, as if something moved beneath it. There were no red or dark spots that I could see. the thing had bleached white skin.

It reeked of foul-smelling chemicals, which began to burn at my eyes as I got closer. Then it turned around, catching me mid-stride and revealing its, well, I guess, her, full self. To call this thing a her would be an insult to my gender, so I'll refer to it as the burn. That's what I noticed first. The burn marks on his bulging throats,

dark spots of black that were constantly bubble and boil, like a constant chemical reaction. The burned was less like a drone than the hangar was. It was a size of three drones rolled together and mashed into a ball. It had short, stubby limbs instead of long limb palms. They protruded out and seemed to be mainly there to maintain balance. Looking back on it, the burned made a great antithesis to the hangar. It too had a face. or at least part of one.

I couldn't see its eyes, instead seeing two shrunken sockets that extended deep into the creature's head. It had long, dark hair that hadn't been cut in some time, but it nearly fell to the floor. The most defining feature of the face was the burn's mouth.

It was simply a wide slip cut across the entire face with a slight grin to it. A constant liquid drool emanated from within, the colour white, nearly matching the bleached colour of the, the skin. I could hear the liquid sloshing around, and when the burned opened its mouth to breathe,

I could see the liquid being stored in it. The burned would occasionally try to swallow down the liquid, but to no avail. It would instead vomit it back up to the floor. I could smell the fumes from its breath as it moved towards me. As I mentioned, the burned's neck had severe burn marks in the skin and begun to peel away, revealing a hint of red underneath. The neck mittened the rest of the creature, short, fat, and constantly shifting. The liquid it had been attempting to swallow leaked out of a series of small paws around its neck, further speeding up the chemical burning process. The burned was naked, just like every other creature in this world.

I am the only person with enough decency to not expose myself. His breasts were large, swollen, and the skin was beginning to fall off in places where the chemical liquids had flown down. its body was mutated, rippling every few seconds and bubbling violently when exposed to direct contact with the liquid. Thankfully, the burns fat covered most of her lower body. Hair grew in seemingly random patches, as it did with the hanger, primarily on the arms and in the nether regions. I saw no patches of red around its body, save for a small puddle that formed beneath it. When it saw me with my knife, it opened its mouth in some attempt to communicate. a low gutter or moan, letting the liquid splash on the ground before me.

It advanced to me slowly. Each step must have been a tremendous amount of effort. Riding off the confidence from my confrontation just the previous day with the hangar, I took my knife, plunged it into the burned bulbous body, and wrenched it back out. Well, the burned didn't seem to notice at all. My knife, on the other hand, was covered in the body's inner liquids and began to dissolve. Again I stabbed the burn's body, not wanted to get close enough to slash at the throat, and this time lost my knife in the mass of flesh before me. The burned was agitated and started

towards me at a faster rate. Then it stopped, a gushing sound filling the room and vomited on the ground between us for a solid ten seconds. The pool of liquid began to fill the room and I could feel it start to burn away at my feet. I screamed in pain. and tried to run to safety, only to slip wildly in the liquid and fall face first into the hard ground. The burned seemed unaffected by the liquid's properties, and continued its advance towards me, more liquid boiling up in its mouth. I desperately tried to recover, but between the burning fluids and my own panic, I had trouble getting to my feet and constantly fell back down.

The burned wasted no time and was on me in seconds, grabbing my hair with its stubby hands and pulling my face towards it. Its skin felt warm and gelatinous, rippling against mine as it placed its hands near my mouth, trying to wrench it open. They held it close firmly as the mass of flesh began to pull and pull. I thought back to my confrontation with the hangar and remembered what had driven it away, my blood.

I reached a hand down to my knee and again tore at the scab, allowing blood to once again flow freely. It seeped down into the pool below us and mixed with the liquids. The burn led out a yell of surprise and released me into the pool, which was no longer burning at my skin. I looked around the room, desperately attempting to find some object to aid me. I needed more blood than my leg wound would provide. I found another kitchen knife, this one more serrated than the other.

It would have to work. I drew the blade across my left arm, parallel to it, not perpendicular. The familiar colour of red began to drain from it and onto the floor, mixing quickly with the pool on the floor and changing it from white to deep red. Sensations of pain were quickly replaced with a feeling of total control and happiness. The burned nearly slipped on its own chemicals and blood as it began its hurried retreat, stumbling towards the back door and slipping in my blood. made another slash across my arm, doubling the feelings of pleasure while further driving the burned

away, out of my house, out of my mind. At the time the burn finally rolled its naked body out of the door, all that was left of its presence was the pool of blood and chemicals it had waded through. I haven't seen it since. It's gone, just like the hangar is, very deep down in the corner of the world and my mind. I've since covered myself inflicted wounds and hidden them away. I'm not ashamed of them or anything, it's just, I don't know. Maybe I am ashamed of them. But they saved me, and they felt good. Well, the drones didn't like them.

I could see them glaring at my arm, and that's why I finally covered them. The mess in the kitchen was cleaned up when I got home. The drones like their cleanliness. Still, I'm trying to figure out just what the hell is up with these abominations that attack me. Well, in all honesty, the best of them. burned may or may not have been trying to kill me, and I'm fairly certainly wanted to vomit its chemicals directly into my mouth,

either dissolving my organs from the inside or turning me into a creature like her. I mean, it. Trust me, if you'd seen that thing, you'd agree that it needed to die. The creatures must have something to do with the blood caps. This world is sentient. It realizes that I've refused to follow suit

like the rest of the people and sends creatures to remove me to ensure that conformity is followed by all. Is my blood toxic to these creatures? Maybe the blood canvas wanted to give me a fighting chance, but such a glaring weakness is surely unintended. I'm not dead. That's all I can ask for anymore in this cruel, cruel world.

Yes, I'm done for the day. Day four. Nothing attacked me today, but I still thought it would be beneficial to get these thoughts out of my head let's talk about the old world i don't even know what to think about it i keep contradicting myself when i do i mean yeah it was full of color and happiness but at the same time well no no it wasn't i hated the old world i still do just less than the blood cameras never quite felt the tinge of happiness that everyone else has i've resented all of them for possessing it

God, fucking damn. I'm not special, I'm not different. I mean, we all felt like that at one time or another, right? So why am I chosen to be trapped in this world? Was it by chance or by choice? And whose choice was it? I don't understand. I don't know how to save myself, and it's not like there's anyone to turn to. Everyone's gone, except for you, I mean.

Obviously someone's heard my cries of frustration. How are we able to communicate? Are you trapped in here too? I don't know. I don't know shit. I did cut myself again earlier. No reason. I just simply wanted to see a colour again.

I took the blade to my hip and dug it deep into my flesh. It was a darker red than I'd seen in a while, which was a refreshing change of pace. It gave me a good rush. You see, I cut my hips so that the wound would constantly rub against my pants as I walked round, never fully healing and leaving me languid all day. It's a crusty mess of a scab right now. The drones can't see it either.

That's a nice bonus. I've started carrying a razor in case I ever need to defend myself again. It's kind of cool being in the last human life, at least as far as I know. It gives me something to fight for. But holy shit is it lonely. I never realized how important it is to actually see other human beings every day, whether I wish to speak with them or not.

And there was the odd person that I could talk to every now and again. The blood canvas is just so empty. Of course, if I saw another human being, I'd probably do something despicable. I mean, as long as there are no drones around, this world is technically consequence-free. I wouldn't mind cutting up another person just for the hell of it.

I'd slice up a drone, but that just wouldn't be as satisfying. They wouldn't realize what was going on until it was too late. I want to see the fear and panic in another's eyes as I cut their lifeline short. I want to feel their blood on my hands. I want to feel my blade cut to the bone. I want to feel my fingers in their eye sockets, garging them out, twisting and eliciting, anguish and agony.

And then I want them to die. I want them to regret leaving me so alone. Retribution for myself in the old world. I have control here. in the blood canvas. That sounds really awful. I don't mean it. Sorry, I got a bit carried away.

God, I hate thinking like that. Really, I do. Sometimes I get flashes back to my old life. Yeah, I suppose I've buried that enough. But come on, I'm stuck in another world. You can hardly blame me. I don't know what was worse. My peers at school or my parents at home.

I'm sure, it's one thing to have everyone stare at you and call you a whore or slut behind your back. or your face if they're feeling particularly brave. But it's another to come home and hear your parents discussing their misguided child and trying to fix you. Oh, I'm not a social person. My lack of friends or allies was something I grew accustomed to. And it even helps me cope with a loneliness now.

Oh, shit. I don't know why I'm talking about this. It's inconsequential to my current situation. No one wants to listen to it. Day nine. It's been a few days. Nothing interesting happened until yesterday when I met another human, or at least another person like me. A young girl, around my age, seemingly appearing out of the mist.

At first I was obviously suspicious. After all, the only other apparitions that had appeared to try to kill me, I met her on campus. I've never seen her before. There she was, wandering around, looking just as confused as I was when I entered the canvas. She was shaded in black and white, like everything else, but I could make out a few of her features. First she had a nice, long, smooth, dark hair, what colour it was previously I couldn't tell. I could see that she wore traces of makeup and eyeshadow, although both were beginning to fall into states of disrepair. She had dark eyes, and a few freckles scattered about her face.

She was pale like me, and, if we're being honest here, she had a great slim figure. "'Well, seriously, I could go on, but I won't. "'I want to keep this short. "'She was surprised at my presence and asked where the hell we were. "'Instantly, I fell in love with her voice, "'although just listening to someone other than myself talk "'was what I really needed. "'I told her we were trapped in another world

"'and asked how she'd arrived here. "'She offered the same explanation I've offered you, "'detailing how the world began to subtly shift "'into the total overhaul that is the blood canvas. "'I asked her name. It was Carmen. Carman seemed rather distant, which is understandable. I was lost too upon entering this world.

She talks slowly as if she's constantly computing what she's saying and what she'll have to say. Quiet, soft voice. Oh, I love it. I made an attempt to befriend her, and she shyly accepted, not having much of a choice. After all, we're still alone in some strange level of purgatory. That's why I want to keep this short. She's coming over to hang out soon.

I don't even know what to talk about me. I haven't had a conversation in weeks. She doesn't seem interested in talking about the blood cameras. I haven't told her my official name for it yet. Instead, choosing to focus on the old world, which is fine, and let her talk, and in turn, I listen. Something no one else can do in this world. She told me she hasn't seen any strange creatures like the hangar or the burn.

She did say she was afraid of the drones, though, mostly because of their eerie appearance. I don't blame her. The drones are getting a bit testier. They stare at me more now, more and more, especially when I'm with Carmen. She's the polar opposite of me. Positive, hopeful, kind, gentle, wispy, sociable, smart, funny, memorable, likable, good-looking, really good-looking, and not covered in self-inflicted wounds. it's amazing that she's here in the first place

I feel so at ease in her aura and of course that's a bad thing and I need to constantly be alert still good God I've never felt this feeling before and it feels so so great better than the artificial bliss I created for myself earlier I haven't cut myself anymore since meeting her

haven't needed to day 12 I'm gonna ask her out I realize how pointless and how strange it is really. I'm not sure I'm really her type if you catch my drift. Well, how pointless a gesture that is in a world like this, where we're the only two people remaining.

But I still want to have the experience. And I feel it's the right choice. Giddy with excitement. Things are looking better. Literally, Carmen appears to glow. I can actually see tingees of colour emanating from her. The first was obviously red, but I swear I've seen glimpses of blue,

and green. Blue eyes, I swear she has blue eyes. I'm afraid to ask her, she doesn't like being reminded that she's trapped in this alternate dimension. Anything beats the black and white droll. The sun still burns bright, bleach white, and the ground is still flesh and bleeds, but damn it, my whole world has actually changed. I haven't seen any other hostile abominations, and neither is Carmen. It's like she keeps them away. Well, not complaining. We spent more and more time together, which makes sense, seeing as there's nothing else to do in this world.

She tries to ignore it, tells herself it's just like the old world. It's not, but we don't acknowledge it. The drones are still acting strangely. At least when we're together anyways. All they do is stare at me. Actually, no, that's a lie. They only stare at me when I'm with Carmen.

Alone, I'm invisible to them. I've since broken most of my routines to be closer to her. The drones haven't seemed to care as much as they should. Something's off with them, I just can't figure out what. Carman's noticed it too. We've discussed the drones at length, trying to determine their purpose in this world. The best we could come up with is that they must be integral somehow,

vital to keeping it turning. Unthinking and unfeeling put here with a single purpose. We've tried interacting with them, only to get no response but a glare. They're deaf to it all. This is going to be short. I need to see her again. I'm almost afraid that I'm beginning to rely on her.

Almost. I don't mind that much. I don't quite know how I'm going to ask her. I could do something spectacular. She wouldn't expect that. I don't know, but I'll let you know if it works. Day 13. It worked.

Day 19. Color. It's bad. I can't believe what I've been missing. Okay, it's not a total miracle. There's still some black and white, and the ground is still made of flesh, and the drone still roam about.

But holy shit, I'm finally happy. Well, maybe I'm not happy. Maybe I'm just not depressed anymore. Things are definitely looking up. Something I never thought possible. I don't even know what to say here. I'm so good at bitching and complaining. Not so much saying positive things,

but I'm getting better. And so's Carmen. It's nice to finally have a real friend, not to mention a girlfriend. Sure we were pushed together through necessity, but that's beside the point. She makes me feel so special, so noticed. She pays attention to me, and as much as I hate to admit it, I crave attention. She's happy right now, and by extension, so am I. Damn, I can't get over how nice it is to see colours other than black and white.

Well, there is something strange going on. It's like the world's pushing back. Can't stand to see me happy. It craves my blood. I know it does. I felt the urge many, many times. But I haven't cut myself since meeting karma. And that's a huge step forward.

Still carry a razor, though, just in case. God knows what's out there. We've talked about the possibility of leaving, going off to start a new life. See if there are any. others out there. But we're still stuck here, like we've unfinished business to take care of. So we both agreed to stick around a bit longer and see what happens. She's coming up later. I think we're going to take a nice walk down to the path. There's a bridge over looking a nearby

river. Carmen says you can see the blue in it. Honestly, I just want to be with her. I'm happy wherever we go. Not that there's many places left. She refuses to be near the drones any longer than need be, and the ground isn't exactly perfect for having a pick. Oh shit, this may be the last one. I've got nothing else really to say. The blood canvas is fading away, and I have a new view on life. Things are okay. Day 25.

I don't even know where to fucking start. Everything's fucked. I should have known if something was wrong, that things would never go back to normal. It's the goddamn world. It doesn't want me to be content, and it won't let it. me be. Shit, where do I start? This happened yesterday. I was just too upset to actually talk about it. We're out walking, Carmen and I, when I first noticed that the colour of this world had began to fade again.

That should have been the first sign that something was wrong, but I had my guard down. I wasn't ready. I was too happy lacking the necessary depression that we all need to function. Well, we were out walking by one of our favourite spots, the bridge and river I mentioned a few days back, when Carmen decided we should stop and take in the surroundings. I agreed, that was a nice place to be. We were about 50 feet above a river which roared and raged about, creating a fantastic ambience. A few drones ever permeated around this spot, making it all the more likable. It was a nice, calm, serene scene. God, do I still remember it? That wasn't any colour. It was incredibly unusual, in fact.

I was completely used to it. Still it was marginally unsettling. We were enjoying ourselves, leading over the railing and talking. We were discussing the old world. I talked about how much I hated and almost preferred this world, or Carmen talked about how lonely she currently was, and how she desired to find a way back. Then she started getting more descriptive, more literal.

I'll reiterate the conversation to the best of my memory here. How do you think we get back? She asked. Why would you want to go back? We have all the freedom in this world. And we have each other. Oh, no, don't get me wrong. It's not you.

I love being with you. It's just, I guess I miss my family, my friends. I miss the color and the warmth of the old world. Blood canvas is just so dark and disturbing. You're the only thing worth a damn here. I never told you I caught this place the blood. Oh, well, I mean, that's what I've been calling it, I guess. I mean, blood used to be the only living thing that brought colour here.

Until you showed up. Until you showed up. I wish we could just capture this moment forever. Yeah, it's just... What's bothering you, Carmen? It's something you're not the ball of happiness you usually are. I just... I don't know if I can go on living in this world.

Don't talk like that. That's what the world wants. It wants us to end our lives. We're better than that. Together... I'm sorry. I just can't. It'd be so simple.

We could jump together. What? I'm not ending my life. And neither... She stood up on the railing and offered her hand to me. Without thinking, I stood up there next to her. We're done with this world. She said, let's face the next one together.

I mean, I don't know what. Her voice was soothing. Close your eyes. Don't think about it. Jump with me. I close my eyes thinking that maybe this was the most logical thing to do. I was ready for the next world, and I had calm, and surely we'd go to the same place. I thought back to my time in the old world, my family, my former friends, my former life.

And I thought about the blood canvas, how quickly I'd grown accustomed to it. I didn't hate it like Carmen did, but I was ready to follow her, to obey her wishes. But doubt still lingered in my mind. No, no, I couldn't do it, I couldn't jump. There was still more I could do. I wanted to understand the canvas, not give in to it. If I could understand it, maybe I'd find the exit out of it. I had to back down.

I wouldn't let Carmen jump either. Sure, I'd tried before and sure this world had sent two of his agents to end me, but I was better than them. Despite my better judgment, I still wanted to live my life. I wouldn't do it. I opened my eyes and looked at Carmen. But Carmen wasn't standing there. In her place stood some unholy, unnatural abomination.

It wore her skin, but it was not Carmen. It couldn't have been. His clothes were stained with red, dry, cracked, black. crack blood stains, lingering on as if it had been there for days. His left arm was broken in two, cracked in the middle and hanging limply at its side. I'd been holding it and released it immediately in shot. And then it turned to look at me. It had Carmen's face all right, except the top half was missing, as if someone had popped it open like a grape. There was an uneven, slanted line of flesh and blood that showed the divine. Compressed, that was the...

word, her face was removed and compressed in. Her previously slender and soft neck was scrunched up in jagged lines and drenched in reds. The thing's smile ran from cheek to cheek, overflowing wickedly with joy at my discomfort. Blood leaked from the open wound that was her face. There was no way that this was the karma that I'd spent tireless days with, that I cared about, that I laughed. A trick, a wolf in sheep's clothing. That's what it was. it couldn't be real.

Yes, the sun had gone out. I'm sure the people had changed into brainless drones. Yeah, I cut myself to drive the other creatures away. But Carmen could not be this thing. I stood there dumbfoundies. It reached towards me with its working hand. Jump with me, it spoke through clenched teeth, never breaking its insidious grin.

And it still had calm's majestic and gleeful voice. Out of everything, his voice was what really stunned me. I stumbled backwards, nearly falling onto my back in horror. It still stood on the railing and bent down to put its face even with mine. I can't. You're not the same. I struggle to find words. The thing didn't struggle in the least. Weak, pathetic, scared.

Hearing those words in Carmen's voice broke something inside of me. The creature never broke its hideous grin and went on. I'm offering you a way out. That's what we've been wanting all this time, right? I, no, no, that's not what I want. Liar, you're afraid. You're afraid of what comes next. I could smell its foul breath, tainted with blood and death.

No, I'm not. Its grin widened. The thing grabbed my arm and pulled me close. Our faces pressed against each other. His voice changed from Carmen's. It deepened and took on a more ferocious and aggressive grow, demonic even. Then jump.

Prove it. Kill yourself. Do it, coward. Pathetic loser. Oh, slut. No one loves you. No one gives a shit about you. No one ever will.

You're lost in this world trying to get your way out. Give up. Jump. Oh. I'm better than this world. Fuck, this is your fault. Carmen and I had a life together until you came along and screwed it up. You sick, fuck.

His voice reverted back to Carmen's. What are you talking about? I'm right here with you. You still found me attractive, right? You still love me, right? It rubbed its working hand up and down its body. No, you're not real. Oh, his voice deepened again.

A clever one. Tell me what makes me less real than everything else in this sick, sick world. I had no words to answer that. Instead, I dug out the razor. I'd been keeping just in case something like this happens. Put it to my arm and dragged it across. Crimson once again oozed out of the fresh wound. Bleed your problems away.

Can't even answer the fucking question. Its voice twisted obviously in pain. It's not that simple, your problems. They'll bury you before you bury them. Farewell, my friends. Good luck finding someone else to give you attention. It switched back to Carmen's voice one final time. I love you.

It blew me a kiss and dropped off the bridge, falling into the river and rocks below. I didn't look for the body, choosing a stare to dig deeper into my flesh, control and assurance returning to my body. Day 32. It's been a week. I spent it in loneliness and depression.

The drones are gone, I barely noticed. It's just me now. I can't believe I miss their presence. Nothing matters anymore. If Carmen had asked me to jump with her now, I would have done it. I looked at myself in the mirror yesterday, wondering what had become of me in the month I've been trapped here. I looked about what I expected.

Skinny, malnourished, broken, sullen, disgusting, filthy, unhealthy, unattractive and all together miserable. I don't even see blood anymore. That colour's been lost. The feeling of ecstasy it once brought me has faded along with it. I stared at myself for a good fifteen minutes, wondering just what in the hell to do with myself. And then my reflection moved of its own will.

I watched it take out the blade I kept in my pocket and put it to its wrist, then it sliced it clean open in a near perfect cut. Dark grey liquid flowed from its wrist and poured onto the counter adjacent to it. Then, with some difficulty, my reflection repeated the process with its other wrist. His arms were drenched in presumably blood, as it held them out towards me for me to observe. It grinned at me and then fell to the floor lifelessly. I shook my head and my normal reflection appeared again. A glimpse of the future, if I followed my current path, sloth, a path of laziness.

laziness. My reflection was right. It's time to end this. I'm concluding my story, hoping someone else can make sense of it. I'm finally fed up completely with this world and ready to move on. I'm tired of running from my problems. I'm getting rid of them for good now. Finally taking control, real control, putting my life into my own hands. And I choose to leave the blood canvas. I'm so, Doc, that's it. That ends my story for today's session. What do you think?

Am I a crazy teenager or what? Well, it got a little dramatic at the end there, but overall I quite enjoyed it. It's been an interesting month, hasn't it? I certainly wouldn't use the word crazy. We all have our ways of coping with stress and difficulties in our lives. May I see your arms, please?

Sure. My arm is my canvas, my blade, my brush. together they make heart aren't they beautiful indeed now I want you to realize that you can't punish yourself like this you've talked about this numerous times you know you can't keep hurting yourself like this there are those that genuinely care about you've had a very troubling month you're confused about your sexuality you're alone but you realize that you're winning the fright correct every day you're still alive you're winning that internal struggle of yours and you're making progress don't forget that

that. Thank you. You're most welcome. Let's talk some more about these creatures that cause you to punish yourself. What do you think that girl in the mirror represents? I told you. It's me if I keep doing this. So you realise that you can't keep doing this, do you son? Yes, that's what I said at the end. I want to leave this world. I'm going to listen to you. I need someone else to pull me out at the blood canvas. Well, I'm glad to hear that. First, we need a better way to deal with these punishments, these creatures. Oh, they're not punishments? Hmm. What would you call them? Justification. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small

favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.