Art Room, in a middle-sized house near Poste de Police, Paris, France
Claude Perrin, Commissaire de Police of the Poste de Police station, was sitting on a stool in the art room of his house. In his hands and around him on the table or on the ground were painting instruments such as paintbrushes, paint trays, rollers, paint buckets/cans, painter's tape, drop cloths, ladders, extension poles, and caulking guns scattered all around the room.
In front of him was a canvas which he was staring at with a confused expression, contemplating what he should draw today.
He stared at the canvas with his deep blue eyes that had been turning grey due to the recent cataract he had developed. He had already consulted different doctors, and surgery to remove his cataract had been scheduled for next week. Moreover, the doctor was one of the best surgeons in the whole world—adept, experienced, and knowledgeable in all types of surgeries. He was rumoured to have performed more than 3000 surgeries, and he was only 32.
As Claude couldn't help but turn his attention from the canvas to the doctor, he imagined the characteristics and face of the great surgeon.
His name was Dr. Murphy House. He had golden-brown curly hair. His facial features were soft, and despite being middle-aged, he looked like a person who was still 18. His white eyes were very mesmerizing and beautiful, with warmth hidden in them, making anyone who looked into them feel warmth in their heart, soul, and mind. He was rather tall and had a medium build—neither too thin nor too thick. He always spoke to others with a faint smile on his face that could make anyone happy and eager to talk to him, as if they were speaking to a lifelong friend. He was very handsome too, but despite being so welcoming and warm, he remained unmarried to this day; he didn't even have a girlfriend.
Such a doctor was, non-shockingly, very famous throughout the world. He was not respected and looked up to just because he was reputed to be the best surgeon of the century, but also due to his kind, benevolent, gentle, and warm nature. He performed free surgeries for the poor and did whatever he could to help people living in poverty, giving hope to those trying to change their fate.
If there was something that made him imperfect, it would be that he was very religious, to the point that he tried to convert the faith of every patient he treated and talked more about religion than medicine. Still, his good sides clearly overshadowed this habit. He never refused anyone from any religion and treated everyone. For various reasons, however, he seemed to really hate politicians and, no matter how much money they offered or how they threatened him, he never performed surgery on them—or their family members and relatives.
Many politicians had tried to please him using all kinds of methods: donating money to charity or to the church, engaging in topics relating to religion or medicine, or pretending to care deeply for the poor and exaggerating their donations. Every attempt had failed and only resulted in him becoming even colder and more distant toward those politicians.
Assassination attempts had occurred because of that, but he always emerged without a scratch, while the assassin was found dead. He gave the excuse that he was very good in combat, and due to his reputation, status, influence, and the capable, experienced lawyer team he had, he had never been threatened legally or jailed.
Claude definitely didn't have much money to afford a surgeon such as Dr. Murphy. However, at a party, Claude had been able to meet Dr. Murphy, and Murphy was very surprised by Claude's recounting of his life as a police officer. Murphy said that he respected people like Claude from the bottom of his heart—those who spent their whole lives protecting and safeguarding the lives of others—and informed him that his cataract would show its initial signs two days later. He offered Claude free surgery to remove it as a way to show his gratitude.
Claude stopped thinking about Dr. Murphy and their conversation, shook his head, and again started to stare at the canvas in front of him, deliberating over what to draw. He didn't even notice that this was his birthday month and was unaware of the fact that his wife and two children were planning a secret party for him.
After long consideration and deliberation, Claude finally decided on what to draw.
"I am going to draw a black mountain with a red sky as the background, with a person walking while holding a spear in his hands. His very long black hair will flutter with the wind and be the main focus of the painting. It will showcase the journey of a warrior walking a path without any meaningful destination—filled with blood and pain—but who keeps walking regardless, for an unknown reason. Hmm... I should make his entire body black, as there won't be enough space to draw his exact features, but I will definitely make sure the observer can see that the warrior has an expressionless face. It has some Chinese vibe to it, too," he decided in his heart.
Claude was a person who loved drawing and art. In his youth, he used to visit the Louvre Museum and gaze upon the artistic masterpieces hung and preserved there, especially the Mona Lisa. Just a glance at it would mesmerise him and make him unable to turn his gaze away or think of anything else.
However, art was, in the end, just a hobby of his. His true dream and goal were to protect the people of his country, either directly or indirectly. His role models were his father and grandfather, who had been an army officer and a police officer, respectively. With their teachings and help, he had joined the police force of Paris, and his rank rose with time until he became the Commissaire de Police of the Poste de Police station. He was very respected by everyone due to his calm nature, critical thinking, and experience. He had a loving family, and there were no huge problems in his life except his cataract, of course. He was already close to retirement, and his children had grown up and even married. He hoped to see his grandchildren at least before he died.
Claude picked up his brush, smeared it with black paint from his paint tray, and started to draw the red sky. After finishing that, he drew the black mountain and finally a path on which the warrior—entirely in black—was walking down, with his long black hair flowing with the wind, disappearing behind the mountain and emerging from the other side. He made sure the hair looked flowy and silky, so that one could almost feel it would be soft and smooth to the touch just by looking at the painting.
By the side, some liquid started to drip down. That liquid was thick and crimson red in colour, with black particles floating around in it.
The red liquid seemed to have a life of its own as it shaped itself into the form of a centipede and started to crawl toward Claude.
Claude was taking a final look at his painting and didn't feel anything as the centipede climbed up his left leg to his torso, then to his ear, and entered his left ear.
During this whole process, Claude didn't feel a single thing and didn't seem to see the centipede at all.
After the centipede crawled into his ear, it stopped shaping itself and turned back into the crimson red liquid with black particles floating in it, seeping into his body.
Claude got up and stretched himself. He had decided to go to sleep now. He took a final look at his painting and suddenly froze...
He felt something was wrong with his painting. It had seemed perfect before, but now it was far from it. He felt an intense urge in his heart and mind to make it better. He sat down on the stool again to draw, but he got an intuition that painting with ordinary paint was not going to make the painting perfect.
He looked around; his gaze fell on a knife that was lying on the drawer of the art room. He immediately knew how he could make his painting perfect. He got up, walked over, picked up the knife, walked back to the stool, and sat down.
He looked at the knife, then at his hands. He opened up his left arm and cut his left hand with the knife.
A huge cut was made on his hand, and blood started to flow out. The more it fell, the happier and more excited he felt because his painting could be perfected now. The more excited he became, the more his body shook; a mad smile also started to form on his face.
He put his blood on the colour tray, removed all the ordinary red colour, and poured his blood in its place. Then he picked up his brush, smeared it with his blood, threw the painting he had just finished away, picked up a new canvas, and started to paint the red sky with his blood.
The more he painted, the more excited and happy he became; the ends of his lips curled up until there was a mad smile on his face. After some time, he even started to giggle and laugh like a lunatic.
Author's note: The liquid didn't turn or transform itself into a centipede. It "shaped" itself into a centipede.