(I have rewritten this, it is now going to be a longer story. I felt what i did before was too short. This is sort of like a chapter 1, sorta. Anyway, let me know what you think. Thanks :'D )
"Places, everyone, places!" The theatre was silent as he spoke. The emotionless audience remained still, watching the masked virtuoso move elegantly around the stage, organising every small detail. “Everything must be exactly in place! Quickly now, the audience is waiting!"
The doors to the theatre shut, a chain being tied around its handles. The final man and woman were guided to their seats, trading struggled punches with the usher, “My daughter!” cried the man, a fine needle being injected into his neck, tears falling rapidly down his cheeks. “Where is my daughter?”
“Do not worry,” the usher snickered, watching the green liquid leave the barrel of the needle. “You’ll be with her soon enough.”
“How lovely.” The virtuoso watched over the audience, waiting anxiously. “Everyone is in place, I am in place, everything is perfect.”
He cleared his throat, the beginning loomed. “Smiles, everyone, smiles!” his voice echoed throughout the theatre, causing gloomy eyes to shift his way. “I’ve outdone myself this time, you’re all in for a killer show!”
He straightened his robe; standing as tall as he could, ascending his hands up into the air. “The curtain rises,” his voice fell to nothing more than a whisper, closing his eyes. “The stage is set.”
The lights illuminating the theatre dimmed, darkness fell over the stage. The virtuoso reached beneath his robe, searching for his puppet. Polished gold greeted his fingers, the barrel, he inched his fingers further along, finding it. His thoughts calmed, opening his eyes. He was ready to perform.
He walked the length of the stage, consumed in darkness. He hummed the only song he knew, waiting. The moment must be perfect.
His humming grew louder and louder, a song of new life. He stopped at the pinnacle of his breath, returning to centre stage.
The lights returned, lighting up only the virtuoso. His pale mask shone a brilliant white, blinding all who looked upon it. “Death,” the word stirred no reaction amongst the audience, continuing their blank stare. “Death comes to all in the end. We live, we die. The inevitable cycle of life, live, die. Shouldn’t death be exciting? To go out on a high, being remembered for something with meaning, wouldn’t that be something?”
He waited for his echo to leave, the time was almost right. “Death should be an art form. An artist’s painting lives on after the artist dies, it is the only thing that lives on. I am the artist; you are my painting. You will live on, in time.”
The audience stirred at his last sentence, gathering their consciousness.
The virtuoso stepped forwards, kneeling down. “Beautiful,” He looked a small girl in the eyes, watching her head drift from side to side, butterflies filled his stomach.
He returned to his feet, feeling his puppet within his robe. “You will be but a mere stroke upon my painting, a meaningful stroke.”
He watched the girl look around in confusion, awoken from her state of rest. “Mum, Dad?” Her cries disturbed his thoughts, an usher ran over to her, injecting another needle into her neck. "I have elaborate plans for you."
He stood up slowly, the moment was perfect. Breath. You must breathe. His heart was racing; his hands were wet. He grabbed one of his puppets strings, hearing it prepare. “Watch me pull my puppets strings, watch them dance, hear them sing, feel them move.”
The stage light went out, all was dark. ‘The moment before the shot is painful.’ His father’s words played in his head, he could wait no longer.
The light returned, brighter than before. The audience were illuminated; the stage was black. I will gaze upon beauty. His pupils constricted, he could see all.
He took a deep breath, all went silent. One breath should last.
“I will make you famous!” His voice broke the silence. “The performance begins!”
He knelt down on one knee, taking careful aim. The trigger was firm, he pulled it slowly.
The bang was loud, shattering all glass objects in the theatre. A golden bullet flew out of the gun, separating into hundreds of little bullets, searching for their targets, an easy find.
The virtuoso watched, hypnotised. Flesh was ripped, torn and thrown around. Velvet chairs were stained with blood. The gun was hot, smoking through the barrel, he sniffed it in, ecstasy to his soul. “Art is worth the pain!” he screamed at the lifeless audience, his voice cracking mid-sentence. Tears fell down his cheeks, beautiful death. “Your life had no value before me!”
He noticed the little girl slumped in her seat, blood spreading over her yellow dress. The virtuoso looked away immediately, walking to the back of the stage.
“Art must exist beyond reason,” his voice softened, he could see the whole canvas from where he stood. The first stroke of the brush.
The curtain fell, he was alone.
). 
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