[ WP ] You 're kidnapped by Bob Ross and when you get to his house he tells you `` We 're going to make a happy little painting together . ''

The room is dark. It's impossible to tell how big it is, large enough that the spot light in the centre lit nothing but the easel and canvas. I come to consciousness slowly, drawn like a moth to the flame of the spotlight. 
 
 Soon I am awake enough to be afraid. I try to scream through the gag, it's thick rubber stretching my jaw wide, but could n't. Struggling, I feel the ropes tighten. They keep getting tighter and I have to stop. Taking deep breaths, I try to calm myself. No matter what, I know I'm better off facing what comes with a clear head. 
 
 It could have been ten minutes or an hour, I do n't know. A door opens. I recognize it, the click of a latch and waft of air tell me I'm no longer alone. A shape coalesces from the shadows outside the spot light. It takes the shape of a man, a man I know. I've watched him for hours, listening to his voice, it was so kind and calming. His eyes burn into mine. I need to pee. 
 
 `` We're going to make a happy little painting together'' Bob smiled. Ice shot down my spine and my flesh crawled. `` For that, we'll need to make some happy little colours!'' 
 
 Reaching his right hand behind me, it came back with a brush that glinted in the light. It cast a rainbow glittering along the crest of Bob's hair. `` That's right, this is my special brush. I use it when I need the most special colours of them all.'' 
 
 Bob sat in a stool next to the easel, a stool that had n't been there before. `` Today, since the leaves are changing colours, we'll make a painting of the forest. Wo n't that be nice? 
 
 `` First, we'll need some red'', Bob leans towards me and flicks the brush across my cheek. White hot pain lances through my face. Tears burst from my eyes and I thrash against my bonds. They cut deeper. Bob's smile widens and his pupils dilate, so wide his eyes look as black as the room. Whisking the brush to the canvas and blotching the beginning of a maple forest, Bob begins to paint. 
 
 `` Oh my, such a lovely colour'' he murmurs as he reloads the brush. `` But a maple forest ca n't just be red'' He presses the brush into my stomach, swirling it. It cuts like a drill, burrowing deep. Suddenly, he rips it out, chuckling softly at the spray of gore. `` They turn yellow first.'' 
 
 The bristles are yellow with urine, disgusted and horrified, I watch him add yellow to the trees. With a wink, he adds a happy little sun. 
 
 `` Would a lake be nice? To give all the happy little deer a place to drink? I think so.'' he leaned towards me, stretching his right hand forwards. Raised it to my eye. `` My my, what a special blue'', the hand draws closer. The tip traces a slow circle around my iris, sucking the colour out like a wick draws oil and pouring in pain like molten steel. Through the tears, I saw the brush scrap once more against the canvas, leaving a trail of my eye behind it. 
 
 With a satisfied sigh, Bob surveys his work so far. `` I think some lovely mountains would fit right in, do n't you?'' The brush flicks against my forehead, scattering skin and blood in its wake. Again, this time reaching bone. Again and again, wearing through my skull as patiently as a river erodes its bed. But no river bed ever wanted to scream like me, to die as much as I do. 
 
 `` That is a lovely shade of grey, I think it will make wonderful mountains!'' 
 
 
 
 

