The Painter was a simple man. A simple man who lived a normal life with his darling wife, Angel. The couple lived together, alone in a small flat which was admitted to regular visits from the neighbour's cat. The painter loved his wife derely and would often paint just for her. He was just that kind of guy.

But after several years of living the same repetitive life and being the same repetitive couple their marriage fell apart. The Painter spent the majority of his days locked away in his workshop, staring at a blank canvas. Angel had to set about leaving notes around the house just to communicate with him, although he never did reply. That's with the exception of one day; the day she wrote her final note. It read 'Have you found what you're looking for? We live in the same house for God's sake, talk to me.' The Painter crumpled up the note in his hand and returned to his workshop. Only this time, he picked up a brush and he began to paint. He did so through all the hours of the night, up until the break of day. That morning, the Painter opened his workshop door; Angel was on the other side with paper and a pen. For a few moments they glared at eachother like strangers, then The Painter held her hand gently and walked her to his painting, for her. He sat her down, with his other hand covering her eyes and asked her, "would you like to see?" Angel was lost for words and so she simply nodded. The Painter moved his hand away and she saw nothing.

That morning, The Painter murdered his wife. He cut into her flesh and he painted a cluster of beautiful flowers on the canvas of her skin. Every morning he'd stand in front of this painting, and he would repeat the exact same words he said the morning before and the morning before that.

"I know how much you adore pretty flowers, and I adore you just as much, this was a painting for you." He was just that kind of guy.

The Painter was a simple man. A simple man who lived a normal life with his darling wife, Angel. The couple lived together, alone in a small flat which was admitted to regular visits from the neighbour's cat. The painter loved his wife derely and would often paint just for her. He was just that kind of guy.

But after several years of living the same repetitive life and being the same repetitive couple their marriage fell apart. The Painter spent the majority of his days locked away in his workshop, staring at a blank canvas. Angel had to set about leaving notes around the house just to communicate with him, although he never did reply. That's with the exception of one day; the day she wrote her final note. It read 'Have you found what you're looking for? We live in the same house for God's sake, talk to me.' The Painter crumpled up the note in his hand and returned to his workshop. Only this time, he picked up a brush and he began to paint. He did so through all the hours of the night, up until the break of day. That morning, the Painter opened his workshop door; Angel was on the other side with paper and a pen. For a few moments they glared at eachother like strangers, then The Painter held her hand gently and walked her to his painting, for her. He sat her down, with his other hand covering her eyes and asked her, "would you like to see?" Angel was lost for words and so she simply nodded. The Painter moved his hand away and she saw nothing.

That morning, The Painter murdered his wife. He cut into her flesh and he painted a cluster of beautiful flowers on the canvas of her skin. Every morning he'd stand in front of this painting, and he would repeat the exact same words he said the morning before and the morning before that.

"I know how much you adore pretty flowers, and I adore you just as much, this was a painting for you." He was just that kind of guy.

The Painter was a simple man. A simple man who lived a normal life with his darling wife, Angel. The couple lived together, alone in a small flat which was admitted to regular visits from the neighbour's cat. The painter loved his wife dearly and would often paint just for her. He was just that kind of guy.
Consider removing the last sentence. It sounds conversational while the rest of the description is very much storybook.

But after several years of living the same repetitive life and being the same repetitive couple their marriage fell apart. The Painter spent the majority of his days locked away in his workshop, staring at a blank canvas. Angel had to set about leaving notes around the house just to communicate with him, although he never did reply.
Suggestion: "Over the years however, adventure became routine, routine became repetitiveness. Eventually their marriage fell apart. The Painter spent the majority of his days locked away in his workshop, staring at a blank canvas, uninspired. Angel had to set about leaving notes around the house just to communicate with him, always awaiting a reply, never receiving one."
That's With the exception of one day, the day she wrote her final note. It read 'Have you found what you're looking for? We live in the same house for God's sake, talk to me.' The Painter crumpled up the note in his hand and returned to his workshop. Only this time, He picked up a brush and he began to paint. He did so through all the hours of the night, up until the break of dawn. That morning, the Painter opened his workshop door; Angel was on the other side with paper and a pen. For a few moments they glared at each other like strangers, then The Painter's expression softened. He took her hand gently and walked her to his painting, for her. He sat her down, with his other hand covering her eyes and asked her, "would you like to see?" Angel was lost for words and so she simply nodded. The Painter moved his hand away and she saw nothing.

That morning, The Painter murdered his wife. He cut into her flesh and he painted a cluster of beautiful flowers on the canvas of her skin. Every morning he'd stand in front of this painting, and he would repeat the exact same words he said the morning before and the morning before that.

"I know how much you adore pretty flowers, and I adore you just as much, this was a painting for you." He was just that kind of guy.
I would restructure this entire sequence. He sits her down, uncovers her eyes "The canvas is blank, what is this?" "I know how much you adore flowers..." *THWACK* *SLICE* *snipsnipsnip*. he painted her beautiful, etc.

The Painter was a simple man. A simple man who lived a normal life with his darling wife, Angel. The couple lived together, alone in a small flat which was admitted to regular visits from the neighbour's cat. The painter loved his wife dearly and would often paint just for her.

Over the years however, adventure became routine, routine became repetitiveness. Eventually their marriage fell apart. The Painter spent the majority of his days locked away in his workshop, staring at a blank canvas, uninspired. Angel had to set about leaving notes around the house just to communicate with him, always awaiting a reply, never receiving one. With the exception of one day, the day she wrote her final note. It read 'Have you found what you're looking for? We live in the same house for God's sake, talk to me.' The Painter crumpled up the note in his hand and returned to his workshop. He picked up a brush and he began to paint. He did so through all the hours of the night, up until the break of dawn. That morning, the Painter opened his workshop door; Angel was on the other side with paper and a pen. For a few moments they glared at each other like strangers, then The Painter's expression softened. He took her hand gently and walked her to his painting. He sat her down, with his other hand covering her eyes and asked her, "Would you like to see?" Angel was lost for words and simply nodded. The Painter moved his hand away and she saw nothing. "I don't understand," she whispered. "This is just a blank canvas."

"I know how much you adore pretty flowers, and I adore you just as much. This is a painting for you." Before she could respond, his fist, suddenly clutching an old paintbrush handle, was brought down hard on the top of her head. He then went to work, slicing and dicing, his greatest work unfolding before his eyes. He cut into her flesh and he painted a cluster of beautiful flowers on the canvas of her skin. He knew he was proficient with a brush, but he was a master with the knife. After a few moments he stepped back, admiring his work.

Every morning he'd stand in front of his painting, and he would repeat the exact same words he said the morning before and the morning before that.

"I know how much you adore pretty flowers, and I adore you just as much, this was for you."