Snap! Brittle bones cracked and popped as I hit them again and again with the precise
taps of a screwdriver. Ivory splinters littered the floor, shining faintly in the pale yellow light.

I kept tapping away at the cheekbone, ignoring the rancid blood coalescing on my hands. This one was going to be perfect. His name was Jordan Kepler, and he was one of my best actors. But I made him better. He had needed to be more than he was, and I had done just that. What I uncovered was more of his potential than he could have ever found, now that he was completely under my control.

Finally, when I had gotten the cheekbone down to the perfect, slim architecture, I dropped the crimson-tipped phillips head. It clattered to the ground, coming to rest among the bone chips. Taking out my needle and thread, I quickly sewed the flap of skin tightly to its other half, using cream-colored thread, of course. His sutures couldn't show on stage! I would die of embarrassment.

Stepping back from my work, I scrutinized it with an artist's eye. Yes, what I was doing was art. Nothing short of a masterpiece each time, but Jordan was my best one yet. His body lent itself so well to hanging; his beautiful, thin neck took no time at all to break. Stupid little stick of a boy could never keep enough meat on his bones to actually fight back. He never had a chance.

Shouts of "What's wrong with you?" and "Why are you doing this to me?" still rang through my ears. I felt my lips curve into a twisted smile while hearing them.

"This is for the best, Jordan," I had replied, after he was already gone. "You never believed in yourself, but I did. I always did. This is your . . . 'second chance,' if you will."

With that, I twisted his arm sharply, snapping his ulna into three pieces. Next, the other arm, and then the legs. All of his limbs needed to be excessively mobile. It was the only way I could move them from above with professional quality.

Then, of course, it was time for the next step. I ripped his clothes off, careful to not distress the stitches. The fabrics were soaked dark red, almost black, and they left my hands feeling excitably unclean.

There. Now, his skin was exposed, and I could dress him in his costume. A stunning display, radiant in rich purples and blacks.

I picked up one of Jordan's dismembered arms, guiding it through the sleeve. My actors were so much easier to dress when they were dead. No more shouting or constant questions, and that was nice. And hanging was such a clean method of death. I never had to hurt him physically; he did it all himself.  One simple step off the chair, and his own gravity did the rest, slowly ending his life.

The other sleeve slid into place, and then the pants, and eventually everything fit perfectly together. I had really outdone myself this time.
As I added the small touches - a bit of blush over the stitches, to make him look younger, and eyeliner to make his irises pop - I heard the clattering footsteps of children, most of them probably in my classes. They had to be there to get a grade, but what I was showing them was true art. The purest form I knew.

I quickly walked over to the pulley system and drew the curtain, exposing the new and improved Jordan Kepler to the world. Gasps and screams made the air vibrate as they saw what he had become: a true work of art, a priceless marionette. His body moved with much more grace than ever before as it glided across the strings and onto the stage.

This was going to be better than any other play ever produced in this theatre.

Showtime.