Hello, My Name is... (A Miss Hyde Novella Book 1)
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It took an hour for the room to become spotless under my expert hand, but now I wasn’t only covered in what remained of his blood, but also chemicals and sweat. Once the scalding heat of the shower was running down my spine, leaching blood and gore from my hair and my mind, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears for the man who had met such a horrible fate. I understood the instinct, but sometimes still couldn’t control the urge for remorse once it was all said and done. Most of the men I took to my bed that Hyde had murdered were assholes who only wanted that one thing that I was willing to give them and nothing else, taking it without shame and taking more than their fair share. Dax wasn’t those other men. He had been different in a way. It made me feel like I could want more than just another warm body in my bed. Now if only I could try to find some semblance of peace before Hyde stripped everything way.
Chapter Nine
Thanks to the invention of all kinds of useful cleaning chemicals and supplies it only took me two hours to clean the kill room and then myself. Per my usual I took a shower that consisted of twenty minutes of scalding hot water and lavender soap for its calming effect, which was what I desperately needed at the time. The art of murder was never easy, but the other half of you that took pleasure in not only causing pain to others but causing pain to yourself made it much worse. There was always that part of myself that wanted to end it all. If I just took myself out of the equation Hyde would also be gone, and this blasted curse would end with me, but self-preservation always won out. Now, with Dax’s death at my own possessed hands, I actually wanted to crawl under that suicidal rock I found myself in on some occasions. It was nice and cold and dark under there. Somehow I always managed to pull myself out.
Rushing to the gallery I knew Hannah would be okay with me being late coming in, but I knew Lauren wouldn’t be thrilled. I could just see her now, tapping one exquisitely shoed foot on the polished hardwood floor, arms crossed and eyes stern. It wasn’t because me being late made her look bad. It was because she would get stuck with the backlog of work that came with each showing she had to consult on by herself, and we were always booking showings. I was running down the sidewalk towards the gallery, not even five minutes away, when my cell phone rang. The “Dexter” theme song rang out, beckoning me to answer the phone. The ringtone wasn’t special to anyone in particular. In all honestly, I used it for everyone, so I didn’t have to keep up with which ringtone belonged to whom. Looking at the screen, I saw Lauren’s name and contact photo pop up. This elicited a frustrated sigh as I slid my thumb over it to unlock it and answer. Her voice was shrill as she echoed from my speakers. I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second and then gingerly put it back.
“Yes, Lauren, I know. I’m late. I called Hannah and let her know,” I reassured her as I slowed down to a walk instead of the sprint I was doing.
“You have a new painting here that she wants you to look at. I just thought I’d call you before it gets handed to me.” She paused, and I could feel the tension coming through the line. “To be honest, this one is creepy. It’s all you, baby, and the artist is getting a little antsy waiting to hear from us. She’s called a few times this morning. Once we let her know what you want to do, we may run the whole collection, but she wanted you to see the main work first.”
“Well, I’m literally just a few minutes away. That’s if I can get off of the phone.” That was the hint she needed. She muttered a goodbye and hung up, letting me speed back up to a run as soon as I threw the phone into my purse. For instances like this, I always had an emergency pair of flats and a large purse to throw a pair of black heels in. As a matter of fact, I always had a pair in there waiting for just the right occasion when Hyde went overboard, and I was in a rush. Within minutes, I was pushing through the doors and was being greeted by Lauren, whose arms were crossed, tapping her foot on the floor just like I knew she would be.
She opened her mouth and before she could say a word, I put my hand up and said, “I know. I know.” I was practically breathless and was trying my best to catch my breath when I removed the flats one at a time and replaced them with the shiny black heels. Why black? They went with everything, especially a blue button up and black slacks.
“What the Hell took you so long? You have a manicure or something?” She picked up one of my hands and examined my nails which were just as dull and short as usual. She dropped it and rolled her eyes. “Obviously not, like usual.”
“Just a little bit of an emergency, but everything’s okay now.” I clapped my hands together in mock enthusiasm and asked, “Where’s this painting?”
She crooked her finger in a “come hither” motion, and I followed her obligingly when she moved towards the back of the gallery. We both clocked the entire way there, our heels echoing through the whole gallery. It was empty and quiet just like every other day when there wasn’t a gallery showing that night. Those days things were buzzing with energy. This was more of a soft hum with the prospect of booking a new artist, and the hush of the place aside from our footsteps was a welcoming sound. The air left my lungs once I saw the painting. Even from a distance, it was stunning. The edges were black with an oval of aqua surrounding the central figure. This one was definitely more up my alley than most others I had the pleasure of consulting on, and I knew, with the rush of art in the horror genre, that this one would garner some attention. It was a woman with red hair, a slim nude body, and pale skin that was spattered with blood. One hand was held out and up, crimson pouring down from her palm towards her elbow on the verge of dipping onto the canvas below it seemed. The other held a human heart, but that wasn’t what struck me the most about it.
The central figure had one green eye and one brown, the brown ringed in red like she had been crying as well as a little bloodshot. In that moment, I connected more with this painting than any other I had ever seen. Even more than my own work. This woman reminded me so much of myself and my relationship with the violent and demonic side of my soul that murdered innocent men after taking advantage of their bodies. And I was still breathless as I stared at it, biting my fingernail without even realizing it. This was why I had short nails. This and also the fact that I used charcoal, and it had a tendency to get stuck deep underneath. That was when I noticed the large smear of blood on her chest, running from her belly and in between her exposed breasts, ending in splatter up towards her collarbone.
This woman reminded me so much of myself that I nearly turned away from it, but my eyes were stuck to the canvas like when you see a car crash, and you just can’t look away. It didn’t matter how gory or heinous what you were seeing was. You couldn’t tear your eyes from it.
“Blythe,” Lauren whispered as I stared mesmerized at the piece in front of me. “You okay?”
Not even looking at her I acknowledged her with a, “Yes,” followed with,” I’m fine.” Pointing at the painting like it wasn’t the only thing in the room I probed, “Are the rest like this?”
Lauren nodded in response. I didn’t see the movement, but I knew she had done it. “They are all based on this same figure. It’s a part of a collection about the duality that we all fight with. The artist can better explain the theme to you. I just know this one creeped me out enough without needing to see the rest. Because of that, I knew you’d be the one to do the collection justice. If you want, I can call the artist and schedule an appointment so you can see the rest of it.”
“That’s only if you don’t mind.” Turning to her I saw her eyes were glued to the painting as well, but I could only see the crimson of the painted blood reflecting in her eyes. She didn’t want to be anywhere near this one, and I could tell. “Or I can call her to set that up.”
Standing there frozen in place with gaze fixated she waved her hand at me and said, “Don’t be silly. I can do it.” She turned on her heels and walked towards the front of the gallery, not even daring to look back towards me or the painting. Her body was stiff as she moved, frightened even. I found it funny how she didn’t find
me this terrifying, but yet I had so much in common with the figure. Where had the artist even begun to get an idea like this without getting inspiration from somewhere. There was no way anyone possibly knew, but for some reason, I was paranoid that my secret would be exposed. All because of a painting that there was no way it was connected to me or who I was.
I moved closer to the painting, reaching my hand out to touch the rough canvas, but I stopped myself. My hand hovered right over the painted surface with only mere centimeters of space separating my flesh from the colors. My breath was caught in my throat as I stared at it and I knew I had to meet the person responsible for this beautifully disturbing work. That was when I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that we would get along just famously. I was the live version of her entire collection and, as I stood there, I could feel Hyde shiver inside of my mind.
She was thrilled to be the subject no one knew existed. Not even the artist.
About the Author
Kindra Sowder was born and raised in Rancho Palos Verdes, CA until the age of 12, when her family moved to Spartanburg, SC. She graduated from high school in 2006 with full honors and as a member of her high school Literary Club and the Spanish Honor Society. In January 2014, she graduated with her second degree in Psychology, earning her an AA and BA in the field. She began to write long before this, though, forming the basis for the Executioner Trilogy at the age of 15. She got married to her husband Edd Sowder in May 2014 and still lives in Spartanburg, SC where she based Burning Willow Press.