Dust stared at the woman, his eyes caressing over her body like a cold, grotesque hand. She was seated upright against the stone wall, her hands tied firmly behind her back with thin rope. Crimson colours stained her crisp, white blouse and fitting black skirt. Along her chest and face, knife wounds decorated her skin like bad face paint at an amusement park. A small rectangle of duct tape had been smoothed out across her lips, like a stamp on an envelope. Her head was slumped over, blood still dripping from her nose onto the cement ground. Smeared across the ground, blood would show signs of struggle to the detectives that would enter the cellar three weeks later. But when they came, they would be too late.

Far too late.

Nearby, the name tag of the waitress lay on the ground. It read Emily McVinch. From her place on the wall, she groaned softly. She was still alive. Only just, but her heart fought to keep beating. As she drifted in and out of consciousness, Dust shook his head. This just wouldn't do. Dust though about Father. He would have never approved. There wasn't enough detail; enough expression. The customers would never buy. The product would never meet their expectations.

Dust approached the female. In his hand, they held a needle and thread. And a wig.

Emily flickered her eyes groggily. She felt as if she was ready to vomit. Her head swam, and her stomach ached. As her eyes gradually cracked open, she caught sight of Dust. Holding the needle.

Needle.

She was suddenly wide awake, her breathing fast paced and her eyes wide with terror. She scrambled back against the wall, making noises of protest, shaking her head. God, it hurt. Everything hurt. She frantically looked around, for a weapon, for an exit. But there was nothing. She began crying as she made a pathetic attempt to stand up, but her legs gave way, and she collapsed back to the ground. Her tears stung as they rolled down her cheeks into the messy scratches that covered her skin. She saw Dust take another step closer, his eyes wide like two blood moons, his expression that of a maniac's.

Begging with her pleading eyes through sobs, she wildly shook her head through the tape. She was ignored as Dust continued to slowly creep forward. He bent down to her level, and grinned, his yellow teeth showing blood in the gruesome cracks.

Emily whimpered, turning her face away from their rancid breath, and onto the wall, squeezing her eyes shut.

Dust dropped his items, and traced the dirty fingers of a single hand down the girls cheeks, leaving two dark smudges in their place. The fingers sharply turned Emily's head so she was facing Dust again. Her eyes snapped open, tears rolling down her cheeks as he threaded the needle with ease, and lifted the wig to her scalp, setting it on her head. Dust pulled the needle through the base of the wig. It came out neatly through the other side.

Emily writhed in terror, desperately trying to escape, but Dust leaned on her, his weight trapping her. Dust lowered the needle to her skin, just below the point where her hair stopped. She screamed through the duct tape that covered her mouth, her eyes wide and terrified beyond belief as he held the needle just over her forehead. His steady fingers pushed the needle through her skin, and then out again, just above the first puncture.

She screeched in pain. 

Dust grinned in delight. 

Oh, how he loved art.

Especially when his canvas screamed.