Kellman had been painting for thirty years. It was something that helped him express himself. He had come from a long past of abuse, and traumatic events. At just twelve years old he watched his next-door neighbor kill his wife. Unlike any other child, Kellman, found an unusual pleasure in how the blood splattered against the wall. To kellman it painted a story, the final moments to that person’s life. Kellman could remember the image so clearly,
He was angry, and they fought and yelled all night long. My mom and dad were concerned and aggravated for the couple. My mom would knock on the door to see if anyone needed help. The drunk husband would come to the door and yell to my mom get way from here and mind your business. However, in the background my mom could see and hear the fear in the wife. The next day all I could remember was police, and the ambulance at our neighbor’s house the next day. It was the dead of winter and it was like everything stood still as they carried our neighbor’s wife out in a body bag. I thought for sure they would arrest the husband, but he had made his decision to even follow her in death and took his own life.
I remember counting my footsteps in the snow as I walked to our neighbor’s property. Twenty-six steps. I managed to go inside the home without anyone catching me. There I saw what happened. The cream-colored walls filled with shades of blood, and different patterns. I couldn’t believe the feeling I was getting. I was having feelings of bliss just seeing what I thought was the best work of art. I could see the struggled of the wife as she followed her hands along the wall, on her way to the door. I wanted to see if I could copy such work, it was masterful how the walls were a canvas for blood.
It was that moment that Kellman found himself interested in art. His parents thought at first their son was going to be the next Picasso.
At his first art class, Kellman made a huge impression on the teacher. He had used many shades of red to paint a portrait of the world. It almost looked like the world was on fire or it had been doomsday. As the weeks went by, Kellman used nothing but the color red. Even when the art project insisted on using other colors. Then one day the art teacher brought in Kellman’s parents and told them that he wasn’t doing the best in the class and that he refuses to use any color, but red. His parents tried to explore colors into his art but Kellman resisted.
Then one day his parents told him he would no longer be able to do the art class anymore. It infuriated him. They had threw away all his red paint, markers and anything red. Kellman in anger lashed out at his parents. Then he went outside looking for anything he could paint with. A squirrel was climbing up a tree, when Kellman snatched the squirrel by its tail and smashed it against the paved sidewalk. The squirrel bleed from the nose. Although it wasn’t paint, it was still red. Kellman took the squirrel and flung it till the blood created patterns on the side of the white, cookie cutter house. It was art.
Years, had passed since Kellman realized he didn’t need paint to create. However, it was a sick addiction. In the last thirty years, Kellman had killed over fifteen people using their blood as paint for his canvas. Now that he was an adult, he lived secluded away from people. The only means of income, selling his bloody art work to individuals that would buy it online. Kellman’s parents never changed him. They left this world not knowing that their son would become both an artist and a serial killer. In all honesty, no one knew. There may be a Kellman on your block, so beware of your surroundings, you could be his next bloody canvas.