He truly was an artist.
Like a painter with a brush, his razors seemed like they were nothing but an extension of his being. They weighed perfectly in his calloused hands, and everything about them was clean and swift.
His fingers, like a pianist's, seemed to move without care, simply making the music that calmed his thoughts, and eased his ever-present anger.
To him, the blades were music. They sung out to him for warm rubies, their voices cascading through the contours of his mind, bending his will.
That's all he was, really, he consoled in the last sane threads of his mind. A lonely artist, a skilled musician. A poet, if you will. Writing the words of agony across unsuspecting throats, neither dead nor alive; simply there, with a presence that goes unnoticed, but still thickens the air.
And now he leans over her, and the irony is the only friend left. The only friend that has not turned on him, or lied to him. He looks down, eyes clouded over, and realizes that she is simply a masterpiece. Something that a morbid artist would commit to memory, and then bleed out on his canvas. Something that a musician would sing of as he ran his slim fingers over an aged piano. Something that a poet would ponder long after the proper wisps of sense has disappeared into the dusk.
Yes, he truly was an artist.
A/N: The movie was just so deliciously morbid and ironic. After seeing it the second time, about a million ideas had embedded themselves in my head. Committed to memory, like an artist, no? Well, I suppose I'll let you be the judge of that. This is the first time I've ever even considered writing outside of my normal fandom, so I'd love feedback.
Disclaimer: Stephen Sondheim (and Tim Burton) own the brilliance that is Sweeney Todd.