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CHAPTER ONE

I am often misconstrued as a monster. One that has
gruesomely repurposed the corpses of his family into killing
instruments. While that description is somewhat faithful in
a purely material sense, it misses the forest for the trees.
Most conspicuously absent is that I am, first and foremost,
an artist. The murders are but provision.
As for my family—another entirely misinterpreted
subject—they persist as my best works to date. Together, we
have created some splendid pieces, which have warranted no
small amount of attention, albeit for all the wrong reasons.
The proper study of the nature of my work, apart from its
necessary departures from societal norms, would reveal a
specific meditation concerning both the nature of my canvas
and the secret dream I attempt to sculpt from its death. Flesh
and blood may be the clays and paints of my medium, but
dreams are the purpose for their contribution.
Despite my countless attempts, I have yet to achieve a
true masterwork. I have always failed to properly conjure my
true subject—the dream. While each of my pieces is its own
truth, its own attempt at dream, they are all ultimately dead,
stillborn. The fact is, nothing can live here, and nothing ever
will. Sadly, this may be the only aspect of my work that is
indeed properly understood.
This gets to the current futility of my undertaking,
to what my skills can only, truly reveal. Despite all I’ve
accomplished, despite the many galleries and exhibits of

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