Cold Iron

COLD IRON

His eyelids fluttered open.

There was confusion in those eyes. And the beginning of fear.

It was the fear I was after. But not all at once. I had to nurse it, gently coax it out of its masculine shell. It's better that way. For my needs anyway. What I do calls for an artist.

I watched him from the shadows as he awakened. I could have used closed circuit cameras, I suppose. I'm not above enlisting high tech aids in the pursuit of my canvases. But for my actual art, I rely strictly on my skills, my senses, and cold iron.

Especially cold iron. It is, as Kipling would tell you, master of them all.

I watched him as he became aware of his surroundings. He made the usual masculine protests, demanding aloud to the empty air that he be released, as well as the identity of who had done this.

This being stripping him naked and binding him to the wall with cold iron manacles.

Cold iron is master of them all.

I could tell when he noticed the tiny shelf. Rather than let his testicles hang freely from his naked form, I placed a small shelf that they could rest on. Not for his comfort, mind you. It was to draw attention to his vulnerability. Subtly, of course. Men are bred to think of themselves as victimizers, not victims. I had to make him aware of his own dire straits without being blunt about it. The true art is in the exquisite slowness of things.

His eyes were next drawn to the newspaper articles, placed conveniently to be eye level with his new position. They were announcements of the discovery of my previous canvases. There were discussions about my surgical precision in creating my art, and my possible occult motivations. More than possible, actually, but they didn't know that. Most assumed that I was male with sexuality issues. Only one pundit was correct when he dubbed me "Jacqueline the Ripper."

But they were all wrong when they assumed my art was the end. It wasn't. It was merely the means. Which is why I chose who I chose as canvases. They were men who never thought of themselves as possible victims, who walked boldly in the light of day and the depth of night, thinking themselves their own master.

It was at that moment that my canvas spotted my cold iron knife, sitting idly on a small, nearby table, as if it was carelessly left there. My canvas started screaming again, demanding to the empty air that I identify myself and release him.

I shook my head sadly. He still thought himself his own master. I had long ago surrendered myself to the will of my cold iron knife. It alone exorcised, even if for a short time, the demons that dwelt in my mind and soul. And soon, like me, my canvas would learn he wasn't his own master.

Cold iron is master of us all.