In the case of the young artist, the mortician knew he had to be patient. He watched from a distance, studying the artist's habits, their interactions with others and their vulnerabilities. He spends weeks observing the artist and his routines, and through this discovered that the artist had a habit of visiting a nearby café every Sunday morning to enjoy a cup of coffee. It was during one of these visits that the mortician slipped his carefully crafted, and compassionate letter into the artist's mailbox, eagerly awaiting the artist's response.
To my dearest,
I have admired you from afar for quite some time now and decided to work up the courage to write you.
For a long time, I have been captivated by the beauty of your work, and it is obvious that it reflects its creator. I have gone to many an auction in search of your work; alas I have only been able to purchase three of them myself. However, I must say, they are worth far more than money could ever buy. Their beauty deserves to be immortalised, much like your own.
I look forward to one day meeting you in person.
Kindest of regards,
Y. L. S.
The writer had become quite skilled at writing these letters after the first few victims. These letters were a key part of his twisted game, allowing him to toy with his victims and exert control over their lives.
They all had something in common; they were beautiful, talented, and they knew it. They knew that others admired them; envied them. They were vain, gazing into mirrors as though they were parakeets, admiring their own works as though there were nothing else in the world was worthy of their admiration. Foolishly thinking that they're safe and everyone wants to protect them - when really, it's envy. Not wanting to protect it - wanting to have it. The man is no different. He desired to possess it too, immortalise it, capture it, and keep it eternally; like a butterfly sealed in a resin block. Held and preserved forever.
And that's just what he does...
Day in and day out, his job was to oversee the embalming, dressing, and cosmetic enhancements of the deceased before they are placed in a casket. To give the living a pleasant final goodbye. To immortalise their allure and charm, even beyond the grave.
He was good at his job, so much so he carried out these habits outside of work.
Much later, just as night began to lay its blanket of darkness over the town, the mortician began his walk home. He made the effort of stopping by the artist's mailbox, to see if his letter had been received; It had. In its place was a green envelope with the letters "Y.L.S." plastered across its face. The letter was collected and placed into his pocket, until he returned home, where he sat in the living room, carefully opening the envelope and removing the letter within.
Dear Y. L. S.,
I am touched by your words of admiration. I will be at the café on the corner tomorrow at 8am, if you wish to accompany me. Maybe we can get to know each other?
Sincerely,
Your Dearest.
"This is too easy." He muttered.
Before this, the mortician had only been able to admire from afar, writing letters, gathering photos, paintings by the artists, newspaper clippings that may have mentioned them. Anything he could do to be closer to the artist, he did.
Sure enough, as promised, they met 8am sharp that Sunday. The mortician sat across from the artist, thinking to himself:
"He's even more captivating up close."
