Here's a short story that I'm actually going to turn into a novel [quite possibly]. The character's name is Erik Raoul Fleuri Deschannel. and he's quite amazing. ;D

Erik pulled a silver knife from the sheath around his ankle, creating a whistle when the blade cut through the air. His dark eyes turned upon the girl strapped in the chair, shaking uncontrollably and releasing muffled screams. His silent footsteps followed the wooden panels on the floor until he reached the chair and ripped the duct tape off the girl’s face. She released a piercing shriek as his blade came to a pause upon her skin of porcelain. What a beauty, he thought. He loved to watch the fear in her eyes and as he gently placed his hand upon her throat, he could feel the blood pulsing through the jugular ever faster, increasing with each anticipated second of death. The fireplace was releasing an immense heat and as Erik angled the knife, his eyes were ablaze with the fire’s reflection and a grin crept upon his sturdy jaw, showing the faintest trace of his stark white teeth, his incisors sharpened to a fanged tip. His reflection shone within the blade, and as the girl’s eyes caught its attention, she screamed once again when she noticed a single ruby droplet upon the blade. Erik raised his knife, crimson forming a streak upon the blade, towards his face and his tongue swept up the blood, his lids closing for a moment in ecstasy, only to widen quicker than a camera’s shutter. The same grin crept upon his cold face as his eyes flew to her eyes, seeing the fear within them, and then tracing the tears streaming down her face, her pupils dilating and her brows knitting together in a grotesque masque of fear, apprehension. Her worthless whimpering continued to escape her parted lips as he continued to stare into her eyes, drawing out all the pain and horror he could manage to suck from the innermost realm of her soul. Just do it. You know you want to. Just cut her open, the voice hissed in the back of his head.

The knife once again made its way to the edge of her face, but rather than just sitting beneath her temple, it traced along her hair line, crossing each temple, from jaw line to jaw line. The girl’s screams became ever more intense, echoing throughout the rooms of the old Gothic stone manor as the blood dripped down, passing her eyes, passing her lips. Her once blonde hair was now stained a violent crimson at the roots and the hairline. His eyes widened, enraptured by his work, by the blood flow. Erik’s knife continued along her jaw to close the gash surrounding her face.

“Oh, what a beautiful addition you shall be,” Erik voiced as a grim chuckle accompanied his cold, harsh voice. He began to scrape the blade beneath the skin, careful that it did not tear at all, lest it disgrace the beautiful masque. Her shrieks continued as he skinned her face, his trophy, another disguise. Erik paused for a moment, the cheeks barely clinging to the musculature that made up her face. His eyes flickered to the fire, the intensity of the heat scorching his skin beneath his black sleeves. He paced across the floor and sat upon one of the leather couches that faced his victim, grabbing a glass from the table beside him that was filled with the purest nineteenth century burgundy. Erik’s lips barely caressed the glass rim as the liquid entered his mouth, traced his throat, heated his veins. Well, well. Look at what we have here. What a monster you are, Erik! What a vile creature you are, skinning the faces off of all the beautiful people, wearing them as masques. Look at the girl writhing within those tainted bonds, the way her spine and her head is contorting, trying with all her might to escape your insanity. Oh, how beautiful is the pain that she displays, the screams that escape her dying vocal chords. He placed his glass upon the table, not a sound being released as the glass touched glass. He reached for his now blood stained blade, slowly creeping upon the girl once again.

“Look at your sweetest pain and suffering, your cries of martyrdom escaping your devilishly crimson stained lips, your belief in your tainted god who’s deaf and blind to your torment diminishing. Oh what a sacrament is the belief in your faith, a ludicrous hope in a forgiving father to save your soul, of a Christ and savior who dies for your evil deeds,” his smooth tenor voice escaping his lips as his eyes became entranced by the crucifix hanging around her delicately pale neck, his head cocking to the side ever so slightly. Oh, what blasphemic thoughts! My father would’ve struck me for that…Erik’s eyes followed the wooden floor boards and climbed the walls until they came to rest upon a glass display case. Within, there were beautiful masques of every age and race, some still containing the hair and ears, dried blood crusted on the insides. His eyes traced the faces of his victims until they paused for a minute upon his father’s. Instead of just taking the face, Erik had decapitated his father, keeping the whole head to shrink and preserve as a memory of his death. Erik released another cold chuckle, creeping ever closer towards her faint body. The fun is almost to an end. The wondrous Nirvana, the blissful ecstasy. His face inched towards her, his lips gliding upon her soft neck, caressing her forehead, tracing her nose, until they came to a stop upon her lips. He could feel her warm, salty tears flowing down her discoloring skin. This one is awful strong for such a small figure; she is a determined little sparrow, fighting the inevitable. His gloved hand took hold of her right shoulder as he traced his blade up her jugular artery, sending a cold chill throughout her artery, throughout each capillary. Don’t mutilate the body. Just take what you want. Just skin her face. Her cries died out to a deadly silence as the last of her face was carefully skinned, a perfect masque he placed upon the table.