“This really is a beautiful apartment,” the model remarked as she pulled on her robe.
“Thank you.” He blushed. He never had gotten used to compliments.
“And from what I’ve been told, you are a ‘starving artist.’” Sometimes models didn’t know when to be quiet.
“I find all the things I need when I paint.” He spoke gently, as if to a child.
“That’s very poetic,” she whispered. She moved closer to him, letting her robe hang open.
“But really, how do you do it? I won’t tell anyone your secret.” He could smell her perfume, choking him.
“I told you, I find all I need in my work.” With those soft words, he quickly snapped her neck.
He dragged her to the deep freeze hiding behind where the refrigerator stood.
Opening it, he shoved her inside quickly, trying to avoid looking at the other bodies. Many looked like slabs of beef.
He frequently sold organs on the black market in order to make a little cash. Sometimes he even ate the flesh himself to avoid starvation. He had to keep painting after all.