It's all your fault.

You tormented me for so many years.

You locked me up here. You said you could "help" me.

You said I needed help.

Was it really my masterpieces that upset you so?

My grotesque works of art?

You are so squeamish about a few human bones and blood that you said I'm insane?

You are afraid of the way I can paint with blood?

The way I can create sculptures out of flesh and bone?

Is that why you think I'm crazy?

I'm not crazy.

I don't need help.

I just like to paint.

But I've run out of paint.

So you shall remember my last painting.

It will be forever on these retched walls.

This is all your fault.