I Became the Curse Tape Artist and My Masterpiece is… Alive?

My life was a collection of broken things. My dreams of being an artist? Shattered after too many rejections. My apartment? Full of thrift-store junk that never worked right. Even my own hands felt clumsy and useless.

It was in a box of someone else’s forgotten misery that I found it. The previous tenant must have been a weirdo, but their trash was my treasure. And this… this was the weirdest treasure of all.

A single roll of tape. It was heavier than it looked, the core made of some dark, polished wood. The tape itself was a stark, surgical white, but the adhesive side… it had a faint, silvery, almost liquid shimmer. Wrapped around it was a scrap of paper, and on it, a message that felt like a command:

To mend that which is broken is the only true art.

A shiver went down my spine, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was a thrill. That night, fate handed me a reason to use it. My favorite—and only—coffee mug slipped from my fingers, exploding on the floor into a dozen ceramic pieces.

"Damn it…"

On a whim, I reached for the weird tape. I fitted the two largest pieces together and wrapped a single loop of tape around them.

It didn’t just stick.

There was a soft, sighing sound, like air escaping a seal. The tape seemed to melt, sinking into the ceramic. The crack vanished. Not was covered up—it was gone. The seam was perfectly smooth, stronger than the original mug. My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't repair. This was… magic.

A dangerous, intoxicating thought bloomed in my mind.

If it can fix this… what else can it mend?

The objects became too easy. A cracked phone screen fused into a glossy, unblemished whole. A split table leg became stronger than new. The thrill was addictive, but it faded too fast. The tape wanted more. I could feel it in its weight, in the way it seemed to hum in my hand.

My first living subject was a stray cat with a nasty gash on its leg. It hissed as I approached, but I was gentle. "Shhh… let me fix you," I whispered. "Let me make you perfect."

The tape touched its fur. The cat went rigid, then still. Its eyes, wide with fear, slowly glazed over into a placid, empty calm. The wound sealed shut, leaving behind a patch of furless, smooth, porcelain-like skin. The cat didn't run away. It just sat there, perfectly still, perfectly quiet. A living statue.

My art had begun.

People are full of breaks. The world is so, so flawed.

My neighbor, Old Man Hatori, had a terrible, crooked spine. A lifetime of poor posture. A true masterpiece of imperfection. I helped him with his groceries, my hand brushing the strange tape in my pocket.

"It must be painful," I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy.

"Oh, you have no idea, Kaito-kun," he groaned.

"I think I can help," I whispered. "I have a… new kind of brace."

He was so trusting. He let me into his apartment. He let me apply the tape to his back under his shirt. His eyes flew wide as the tape did its work. There was no scream. Just a sharp, sudden inhale, and then… silence. His back straightened with a series of soft, grinding pops. He stood ramrod straight, his face a mask of serene, empty bliss. His spine was now a single, unbreaking column of white, taped perfection.

He didn't thank me. He just stood there in the middle of his room, a monument to my art. I had to add him to the collection.

I led him to my apartment. My girlfriend, Yumi, was waiting, worried about my recent "art projects." Her mouth opened to scream when she saw Old Man Hatori standing motionless by my door.

I was faster.

A loop around her mouth sealed her scream inside. Her terrified eyes are the most beautiful part of the piece. I connected her to Old Man Hatori, tape stretching from her shoulder to his arm, fusing them together. The seam was flawless. Their skin and the tape became one substance, a new kind of flesh.

My apartment is no longer an apartment. It's my gallery. My masterpiece.

The mailman, with his annoying limp, is now part of a beautiful archway by the entrance. The landlord, who complained about the smell, is the centerpiece, his limbs splayed out and connected to four others in a star-like pattern. Mrs. Yamada from 2B is here too, her taped wrist now connected to Yumi’s taped ankle.

They are all so still. So quiet. So perfect. The only sound is my own breathing and the soft, almost inaudible hum of the tape that binds them all together. Sometimes, I swear I see their eyes follow me. Not with anger, but with a silent, desperate plea for me to join them. To complete the art.

The roll of tape is almost gone. Just a few inches left.

I look at my own hands—the hands that failed at sculpture, at painting, at everything. They are the only clumsy, breakable things left in this perfect room.

A true artist doesn't just create a masterpiece.

A true artist becomes it.

The final step is clear. The tape hums in my hand, eager for its last canvas. To make myself eternal. To make myself perfect. To finally mend the most broken thing I know… myself.

I press the last strip of tape to my own wrist.

It doesn't hurt. It feels like… coming home.

The hum is not in my hand anymore. It's in my head. And it's singing.

Join us. Be perfect. Be unbroken.

My heartbeat, that frantic, flawed rhythm, is the last sound. I reach to tape my own chest, to seal it inside forever.

The masterpiece is almost complete.