Hanna leaned forward on her desk; elbows strategically placed a perfect six inches away from each other and at a flawless ninety-degree angle. It was like she had practiced it many times before now. In her smooth voice, she said, “I have a gift for you.” She then reached behind her to grab something that had been leaning against the wall, wrapped in brown paper, each corner smooth and crisp. It contrasted with the white walls and the chaotic collages lining them and mirrored the smooth wooden lines of her desk. This was one reason she hired me. My eye for detail.
The paper was rough on my hands as I took the package from her and I couldn’t keep the questioning look from my face. I wasn’t sure whether to open it now or wait. It was held in place with clear packing tape. Scotch tape never held this type of paper very well. I knew she would see the hesitation in my eyes when she used her hands to make a hurrying gesture and told me to open it, her voice shrill and excited.
I removed the paper carefully, unveiling the back of a canvas and I knew exactly what it was. There was a particular painting by last night’s artist that I had been particularly drawn to for reasons only others could guess at. But only I knew the reason why. As soon as I turned the canvas around to expose the red drips of paint on the front I was speechless. My mouth had hit the floor and was open, making me look like a damned fool as I sat there in her office in that uncomfortable chair. Other colors peaked through the crimson, but it was dominant and as I stared at it images of my most recent kill sped through my mind.
My fingers ran over the paint of its own accord, the mix of rough and smooth textures feeling amazing underneath my fingertips. I could see the man whose name I couldn’t remember with eyes wide, could hear his screams, and could feel his bones breaking underneath my hammer just like I was killing him all over again. The warm feeling signaling the change within me was beginning to spread from my belly and out towards my limbs. I had to stop this. This wasn’t the time or the place. I had to satiate the murderous instinct soon, or it would rule me. The painting said so many words without having to utter a single syllable and woke up that part within me that wanted to maim and slay. I folded the paper back over it and smiled at Hannah in appreciation for what she had done for me. I remembered how much we were asking for me, so I knew the hefty price tag.
“Thank you, Hannah. It’s beautiful,” I whispered as I set the painting down next to my portfolio as quietly as I could. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
“Never you mind that dear. It is well earned, plus,” she beamed at me, “it was free. All I had to do was mention you to the artist, and he was pushing it into my hands.” She leaned forward, placing her chin on her fist and a dreamy look glazing over her eyes. “I think you have an admirer.”
I chuckled at the thought and felt the pitter patter in my chest at the mention of him. He was attractive, and any woman would tell you that. It was the kind of male beauty that made your legs quiver like cooked spaghetti, but I couldn’t take the risk. He was high profile and well known, and I couldn’t risk bringing him to my apartment just for the part I had come to call Hyde’s killing him in that red room. I had no control over it and only she had the power to make the choice.
It was a curse, literally. It had been placed on our family since long before recorded history so there wasn’t much we knew about it. That was until the work made famous by Robert Louis Stevenson. He had somehow dug up our family secret and exposed it to the world, speculating on the details of its origin to scare people, which he rightfully did. Since the death of my parents, I never got to learn how to control the urges from family knowledge. I had learned it all myself from the monster itself, and it had taught me so much. You saw all of the stories coming from that particular work and each one was all full of Hollywood drama. If only they knew the truth. Not only did they have no idea that only one of us out of a generation were born this way, but this monster was bound to us. To our very soul, which is why the transition feels so natural to us.
I looked her straight in the eye and told her, “I guess I need to thank him then.”
Hannah winked and suggested,” You can thank him, alright, dear. You definitely should.” I knew exactly what she meant, and anyone besides me would’ve blushed. I just smirked at her and let her think what she wanted. We had grown close during my time here, so this kind of repartee was some that I didn’t mind. Not that I was super shy or anything.
Hannah clapped her hands together and stood from her chair, smoothing her baby blue shirt down from where it wrinkled when she sat. “Now, as much as I’d love to sit here and chat about boys all day, there is work to be done. He’s coming in today to take an inventory on what sold. He’ll be happy to know all of it did.” She beamed at me as I collected my things and stood with all the grace I could muster even in stiletto heels. The he we had been discussing, he was going to be the man I would let get away. He was a gorgeous and rugged artist who let me have one of his paintings just because. That man’s name was Emmett Adler and just the sound of his name on your lips could make you swoon. That was all I knew to say about him.
I picked up the portfolio from beside the chair and held it out to her; the rough black fabric was scratchy and uncomfortable in my hand, but that was all the damn things came in. “I know you said you wanted to look at these, so I brought them in today.” I paused and shrugged. “Just when you get a chance.” I watched as her smile grew even wider until the point I thought her face would split at the corners of her mouth from the tension. It made me cringe just a little.
“Oh, goodie. I have been looking forward to these,” she chirped as she took the portfolio from my hands, handling it with care and precision as she moved around the desk to place it lovingly against her own on the other side of the room. She was wearing the same heels I was, and it had taken me until that moment to notice. Of course, she was wearing black slacks as well that covered most of the shoe as she walked. “These are charcoal, correct?”
I nodded and responded with a short and curt, yes, making sure to over pronounce the s so I knew she heard it. She was an older woman and had trouble hearing sometimes, so I made a habit of enunciating certain words around her. “I make a point to use charcoal on newsprint. It’s just something about the texture of the paper that I really like when using it. I’ve tried other papers, but no others seem to really do the medium justice like newsprint does.”
She looked at me then, a considering look crossing over her features. Her thin lips had a slight slant to them as she thought, tapping her perfectly manicured finger name against the very corner. “Is charcoal the only medium you use? Do you highlight with chalk or Conte crayon?”
I shook my head at that moment. I could feel her eyes watching every expression and facial tick and considering each one along with the words I spoke. “Absolutely not. I believe that the change in the medium can hurt the work that I do as well as the change in color. Conte, as you know, contains wax as well as charcoal or pressed graphite. Plus, I don’t like the way it feels in my hands. I love the organic feel of the charcoal on its own as well as how it looks on paper. My strength is value and gradation, so I feel the chalk or conte isn’t needed in this instance.” Yes, all of the art classes I took in college didn’t go to waste. I was very knowledgeable, and Hannah knew it. She had asked me that question to see what I would say and whether she would like my answer or not. The grin returned in an instant.
“That’s what I was hoping to hear when I heard you say charcoal and newsprint. I am impressed.” She moved towards me, and I could hear her heels clicking on the tiled floor as she did so, loud and pronounced like they demanded to be heard because of Hannah’s social stature. She was well known, and so was I for knowing her. I sighed a lament of relief internally. I was always relieved when I could impress someone that was as high up on the industry food chain as she was. She could make or break me, and it turned out she wanted to make me. This I was perfectly content with. That was as long as the proverbial backstabbing that tended to take
place within the industry was something I could avoid entirely.
I feigned wiping sweat from my forehead and blew out a breath. “It’s always great to hear I can still impress you after all this time.” Pointing to the portfolio, I said, “I only hope you enjoy looking at them and dissecting them just as much as I did drawing them, Hannah.”
“I know you have talent. I’m just glad to be one of the first to see it.”
The conversation in her office ended with us shaking hands and me backing through the doorway with mock enthusiasm. While I was excited, I had more of an inclination to internalize it. This is normal after the loss of your parents. Or at least, that was what my guidance counselor had stated after my parents had passed. Oh, if only she could see me now.
Chapter Three
I had gotten home from the gallery at a reasonable time like usual. Six o’clock, which gave me plenty of time to have dinner. Lauren, a dear friend I had met while working at the gallery, would be coming over soon, and I knew she would convince me to go out like usual. We always ended up either at bars or dance clubs, getting drunk and taking strapping men home. Lauren was beautiful with chestnut hair, flawless skin, and sultry brown eyes just like mine. As far as personality we were a lot alike, and we were both artists.
But I needed dinner before she entered my door. I didn’t need her wrinkling her nose at what I could possibly be eating, and I didn’t need her knowing what I truly was devouring. One thing I forgot to mention before was that after the men I brought home were dead and dismembered; their hearts were removed, cleaned, and placed in my freezer for later consumption. This helped to keep the other side of me satiated long enough for me to be able to live some semblance of a life. It didn’t last for long, but it lasted long enough.
I slipped my shoes off at the door and slid them underneath the small table I had by the door, throwing my purse and keys onto it. The keys made a metallic clang on the slate top of the table and slid slightly across the surface. It was too warm in the apartment, so I walked across the dark wooden floor of the living room to the thermostat, changing the temperature to a cool and comfortable sixty-five. I looked up at the vent above as cool air spilled out of the metal grate and sighed. Much better.
I stood there for a few minutes and let the air pour over me, unbuttoning the few top buttons of my white shirt and letting it gape so the air could caress the skin underneath. My stomach growled so I then my way into the kitchen and to the freezer, removing a freezer bag with one cleaned and filleted human male heart inside of it. I didn’t have any thawed out because I didn’t think this would be one of those days. I had satisfied the murderous urge just the night before so I truly thought I wouldn’t need it. Unfortunately, I did, and I really wished I didn’t. Sometimes all I really wanted was a salad but this would have to do tonight.
A lot of metal clangs ensued while I seared the fillets, steamed some carrots, and cut a few pieces of French bread. The bread was tough just like all French breads were, but the inside was soft. I plopped a whole slice in my mouth and chewed as I moved the carrots and meat to a place. The yeast made my mouth sting just a little bit, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t tolerate. The crust of the bread scraped my throat in a satisfying way when I swallowed. I took that moment to place the last fillet on the plate and pour myself a glass of zinfandel.
I had practically scarfed down the food like I hadn’t eaten in ages. That part of me didn’t require the veggies I piled on the plate, but I couldn’t force myself to eat the human heart without them; chugging the Zinfandel like that was all there was to drink. I hated the taste of it. It was metallic and gamey, but Hyde seemed to love it, and I only hope that it would satisfy her long enough to where I could have an average night with a man instead of killing him at the end before the sun rose into the sky and blend into the clouds. This meal was a nearly nightly regimen that kept Hyde from coming out too often, but she still came too often for my taste. One in three men I was ever intimate with met with a grisly fate in that red room that was so stained with blood and death that it could never be cleaned from the surfaces within.
The scrape of the knife and fork on the ceramic plates I always used made me cringe and caused nausea to creep up my throat, threatening to spill out onto the mahogany table underneath, and it didn’t get any better as I scraped any remaining vegetables into the garbage disposal. The chill in the apartment was then negated by the warmth beginning to roll through my gut once again and through my entire body like a tidal wave, being replaced by the same chill that left goose bumps across my flesh and causing me to rub my arms. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, swallowing her down as best as I could until the only person inside of my body was me, and she was only a distant rumbling in the background. I took another deep breath in through my nose and let it out through pursed lips, letting the warmth of my breath pass between them smoothly and without a single sound.
Sweat was beading slightly across my upper lip and hairline, a drop even rolling down my forehead and stopping at one perfectly shaped eyebrow. It was another few minutes before I realized I had even left the water running in the sink and I had stopped midway between rinsing my dishes to ready them for the dishwasher. Then there was a knock on the door, but I needed to make sure there wasn’t a single dirty dish in sight. Me, paranoid? No, not at all. Just your friendly neighborhood serial killer with a bad side. That was all. Without missing a beat, I placed the dishes into the machine, turned off the water with my hand, and closed the door to the dishwasher with my bare foot. The cold metal of it made me want to jerk my foot away, but I resisted the urge to do so.
“Come in,” I yelled towards the door, hearing my voice echo through the vast expanse of the apartment. It seemed much larger than it actually was and I was perfectly okay with that considering how much it really cost. From the sound of the footfalls coming through the doorway and the soft click of the door closing, I knew it was Lauren. She had that subtle way about her, so you knew it was her without actually having to see her at all. Her heels clicked along on the wooden floor as she came towards the kitchen, and I could just imagine the way she moved around the couch towards me. She was graceful as a cat and just as quick. I had just turned around when she crossed into the kitchen, our eyes meeting for just a few moments.
It took me just a minute to take in her appearance, and it looked like she was ready for a night out on the town, which I wasn’t sure I wanted. She was dressed in a black dress that stopped a few inches short of her knees and the top cut low, stopping at a point below her breasts and showing her cleavage. She wanted a man tonight. That I could tell. Her make-up was done in such a way that gave her that come hither look that had most men running in her direction at the snap of a finger. Before I knew it the bottle of Zinfandel was in my hand and I was pouring more into the glass, I had just polished off not even minutes before she walked through the door. I polished this glass off as well, not even caring to stop to take a breath. Slamming the glass on the brown tinged granite countertop I looked at her again. She knew I didn’t to go anywhere tonight, but the look in her eyes and the expression on her face and her posture told me she didn’t seem to care. With a hand placed on her hip and her head tilted slightly to the side, I could imagine the words about to come out of her mouth and damn it if she didn’t prove me right as soon as she parted her lips.
“I know you wanted to stay in tonight, but I’m in the mood to go out.” She paused, looking at my attire. I was still in my clothes that I had been wearing at work and really didn’t want to change, or go anywhere for that matter. I wanted to curl up on the couch with the bottle of wine and watch a little television. Maybe even a movie, but she was intent on going out. This was something we often did if no one could tell from the number of human hearts in my freezer. I was well stocked since I only partook of them every few days or so.
I set the glass down on the counter and said, “Again? We just went out last night. You don’t ever get tired of man upon man?” She seemed
to ponder this for a moment. I knew I was tired of man after man since I ended up taking one home every time we went out. I wasn’t saying I was a slut, but I kind of was and there was a part of me that was okay with that and another part of me that wasn’t. Having yet another man in my bed would surely bring out the other part of me that was perfectly content with it. I wasn’t even sure if content was the word for it anymore. I would say it was more ecstatic to be able to live the lifestyle, and it wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty of money to indulge it. I was only just living off of the interest of my inheritance, and I could waste everything I ever made at work at bars if I wanted, but the other part of me that was Blythe McAlister would rather sit around and watch movies or work on some new art projects.
“You know what? I really don’t,” she sang as she tilted her head to the side and leaned against the fridge. All I did was nod. Lauren was my best friend, and I loved her like she was my own sister, but I sometimes wondered if she was depressed and needed those men to make herself feel better. Did it serve as validation? She was beautiful and successful, and that would’ve been enough for most. It would’ve been enough for me if it weren’t for Hyde. Meeting men at dance clubs was really the only way to get that fix and keep her dormant for a little while except on the rare occasion she feels the itch to kill twice in a row.
Hello, My Name is... (A Miss Hyde Novella Book 1) Page 2