9. Sid
SID
T he house smells of her.
Walking into my room, I flick the light on to find the sheets are a mess, tainted in love that never was. Aggressively, I throw them off the bed and race to the back patio door, tossing the evil energy outside, yelling, “Bitch be gone!” Damn that feels good.
Who needs therapy when you have this?
Smelling the evening mountain air, I decide I need, I crave, and deserve a night of cleansing.
Pulling up the number to one of the local dealers, Winston, whose daddy farms some of our product locally for us, in the middle of his corn fields.
But tonight I need something a little bit more numbing, freeing. Powder.
“Baby Sin, what do I owe the pleasure?” His deep husky voice sends chills down my spine. If I suddenly was into dick, he would be the first one I’d let in.
“I need some powder and a little bit of that grass your daddy grows. Can you bring some over, Whinny?” I play cute to get my way, even if I know he would bend to my will regardless.
Chuckling at my antics, he responds, “I gotchu babe. Be there in a few.”
Once he hangs up, I message the gate guards.
Boss Bitch
Let Winston in once he arrives. Tell him to come to my office. Thanks!
The reply is immediate.
Fortress Protectors
As you wish, Ms. Sid.
Feet pad up the dark wood floor staircase, leading me to the old master suite which I converted into my office.
Flicking the switch, the beauty of my dark soul looks back at me.
Like the rest of my home, the eclectic decor brings me almost as much pleasure as killing and my pigs.
Mason jars of hearts, lungs, eyes, and brains submerged in some sort of clear liquid line the large wall of black shelves.
Mom gave me these as a Christmas gift one year, all saved from my first kill.
Mixed between them are melted white wax candles, human skulls and framed retired antique tools from Mom’s coveted collection. This room is full of sentimental memories and comfort. It’s exactly where I need to be tonight.
The ceiling is decorated in torn black wallpaper exposing some of the cream paint beneath, adding depth to the space, and a vintage bronzed and crystal domed empire chandelier provides some light.
Thin, delicate fabrics drape from the walls, dark burgundies, blacks, and creams. In a couple of places, long, wide, gold-molded mirrors lean against the fabric. In here I am cut off from the outside world with the windows blocked. And it all makes me feel oddly safe. It’s only me in here alone.
Before taking a seat on the couch, I pull my dress down and off my body, letting it fall at my feet.
Stepping out of the fabric, I walk into the attached bathroom and throw on my black silk robe which hangs just above my knees.
Tying it in a bow at my waist, I spin around and take in my appearance, the blood splatter and mascara stains remain.
Throwing my hair into a high ponytail, I rummage through my drawers until I find what I need.
Painting glitter glue under my eyes and overtop of my stained cheeks, my idea takes shape.
Next I find my pixie dust. With just my fingertip I start placing it on top of the tacky glue.
I work it all the way down to the corner of my lips where my lipstick is stained and smudged.
At the same time I smirk to myself in the mirror, I hear the front door open.
“Up here,” I shout to no response other than heavy feet coming up the stairs. My mind sobers from the chaotic thoughts. If it were Winston, why not announce himself?
Slowly I peek out of the bathroom entrance, my body jumps as a tall, broad-shouldered motherfucker wearing a cowboy hat and flannel shirt is smiling back at me. My glitter is everywhere from flying out of my hand.
Winston.
Slapping his chest, I yell, “You motherfucker!”
He erupts in laughter, thinking he’s so fucking hilarious.
Slapping his chest, “Har har. Nearly gave me a stroke.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, baby Sin. But, dang, don’t you look all cute and mad anyways.” he teases playfully, placing his hand over mine, which hasn’t moved off him.
Winston is in his thirties and a classic fuckboy. He can look at a girl and her panties just melt away. Except for mine. His charm is cute, and Whinny is really hot, but my pussy doesn’t ache for him.
Pulling back, crossing my arms over my chest, I pout, still sad about my glitter bomb of an explosion. “Did you bring it all?”
He winks. “Of course, boss lady. I’ll always take care of you. ”
Rolling my eyes, I remind him, “Whinny, I’m not into dicks. You know this. Stop trying. I’m not a challenge you’ll ever conquer, sweet boy.”
He laughs hysterically then winks again, this fucking guy can’t quit, “If you say so, baby Sin.”
Total fuckboy move.
Reaching into his pocket, Winston pulls out my bag of goodies and I nod toward the large table in front of the couch. Walking over, he tosses it down and looks back over, but I cut him off before he can even start. “I don’t need company tonight.”
Sighing as if he is heartbroken, his face saddens, “Have a good night then,” I swear that man can be as dramatic as me sometimes. Dark eyes glance at me, pouting and my head shakes, not giving in before he turns to leave.
Waiting until I hear the front door close, I step over my mess of pixie dust glitter and put my Miley record on, Bangerz , and start it on “Wrecking Ball”. This song really resonates with me. Abi may have wrecked me, but soon I will wreck her.
Wheeling my gold frame with mirrored glass trolley, I bring it with me to the couch.
It’s decorated with cute knick knacks like white candle holders with dried blood dripping down the sides, wilted wild flowers, and vintage pearl necklaces draped over them.
Reaching for the bottom row, I move the white and gold china teacups with black filigree painted on them to the side and bring the silver serving tray to my lap.
It’s mirrored but chipped and rusted, so I won’t see myself looking back at me once playtime begins.
Reaching for the baggy of fun which Winston left, I dump out the contents onto the tray, then place the tray onto the coffee table in front of me.
The fine white powder catches my attention first. Cocaine, cocaine, takes away the pain, I hum to myself.
It’s in a small dime-sized bag. Opening the Ziplock, I dump it on the tray and lick the tip of my finger before sampling the product. Rubbing it on my gums, the numbness almost kicks in immediately. This shit’s going to be fun.
Reaching for my silver letter opener and straw, which I always keep on my tray, I begin to cut and divide the coke before snorting it in quick succession up my nostril. It burns, and my eyes water, but it takes effect instantly. I feel so fucking alive!
My eyes shift and notice a gold frame with two smiling faces looking back at me.
Except those smiling faces are nothing but fucking lies.
Rising to my feet, my heart races and my face scowls.
Walking toward the frame on my black glass desk, I grab it violently, and scream, “LIAR!” Before throwing it to the ground, glass shatters and the frame bounces off the floor.
My feet move and stand on top of the shards, toes curling as I feel the jagged edges breaking through my flesh.
This bitch is going to pay. In blood, so much fucking blood.
The glass crunches as I walk off it, some still embedded inside of my feet. Bending over, I take another line, forgoing the weed altogether. Tonight is not a night to be mellow. Tonight I embrace all eighty-five sides of Sid Sinclair. I’m one dangerous bitch.
A sadistic laugh erupts from deep within.
Putting my phone on speaker, I call Greta. She’s the only one who will understand me right now and what I need to begin to heal.
The phone rings and rings until a snarky, “What?” replaces the dial tone.
I waste no time getting to the point. “Take me to The Ranch.”
“You know I can’t drive.”
Putting on my cute, ‘I need a favor’ voice, I respond, “Rogers! I know you can hear me. The Ranch. Please.”
If they think they are hiding this love affair from me, they are wrong, and I love it.
Greta huffs, “You cheeky bitch. Fine. Be ready outside.” She hangs up immediately, as if she’s annoyed, but she loves our wild adventures.
Snorting one last line, I rush downstairs and head outside to wait for my ride.
Rebound sex is the first step in recovery.
The Ranch was rebuilt on the same piece of land it originally stood on.
Rylee’s childhood swing was all that remained and is the only sentimental thing left on the property.
Whenever I stop by with Greta, she gets nostalgic seeing it.
I suppose it’s also the only thing left of Nicole, her daughter who passed years ago at the hands of The Exiled.
Thankfully it’s dark as we pull up to the large iron gates attached to a large stone wall that surrounds the place, along with multiple security guards. This place is more of a fortress than our family compound. The Ranch will never be destroyed by the hands of our enemies again.
Rogers nods, the guards acknowledge him, and the large doors to the promised land open.
The driveway is short, with green hedges lining it and garden lights.
A large three-story white cement castle greets us.
When I say it’s never burning down again, I mean it.
Black cast-iron doors and window frames provide some contrast and match the black roof.
With portholes and arched windows decorating the top floor, it almost looks medieval with a vintage Victorian flair.
Rogers stops the car, meanwhile I lay in the back seat admiring the ‘under the stars’ effect he had put into the roof of his Rolls-Royce.
I feel eyes on me, but I don’t look toward them, instead, I simply admire and wait for the doors to unlock.