Anne
I woke to the high ceiling and pale wooden beams above me, a reminder of the quaint B&B I’d booked into. It was a travesty that they’d painted over the original wood. The more I stared at the unusual design, the more I found myself imagining how nice it would be to see someone hanged from one.
I sighed and pushed the covers off.
There was no way I could pull that off here.
Shifting body parts required chopping them down first, and dragging a fully grown man around was not easy work.
I had a rhythm now—almost like a production line.
Kill, chainsaw down the middle, pack into the freezer, chop mess-free, dispose. Efficient. Clean. Nothing wasted.
I thought of Gareth, or Garrett, from last night and glanced at the beams again. He’d been almost double my size. There was no realistic way I’d have managed to string him up alone.
I reached for my phone.
Zero messages.
Interesting. After a night like that, they were usually begging for more by morning.
I stretched and groaned as several places ached at once—good aches, the kind that meant the night had been thorough. His lungs would come in useful in a couple of weeks. I could already picture the soft, spongy texture, the unique pattern it would leave once pressed and dried against the canvas.
It would need to be acrylic to get the base effect right. My eyes closed as I pictured the colours building in layers. A fine grind of testicles beneath the horizon line, barely visible, just enough texture to catch the light at certain angles.
First Breath Born.
The name of the new painting arrived fully formed, the way they always did when the concept was right.
I climbed out of bed and opened the heavy blackout curtains, letting the morning light tear its way into the room. The lighting was perfect—it reminded me of my studio. I glanced at the beams one last time before heading to take a shower.
Someone should shoot the owner for that travesty.
?? ?? ??
Once I parked my car in my driveway, I checked my phone again. Still no messages. I would give it another few days and use a secondary location for the next pickup if need be. In the meantime, I could begin priming my canvas.
I slipped my phone into my purse and climbed out of the car. The house, the car, the money—all of it earned from my artwork. I never felt guilty for the wealth I’d accumulated. Each piece I created was part of me, and that came at a premium price.
I opened the back door and grabbed my overnight bag before heading inside. Keys in the bowl. Purse and jacket hung in the closet. Then into the utility room to empty my laundry out of the bag.
It was good to be home.
My real work could never be shared with anyone, but this house knew what I was. It had witnessed things that would be incomprehensible to most people.
My time on this miserable planet was limited. Who would want to live forever? I’d get caught one day, or someone would turn the tables on me while I was taking them out. Being cautious was one thing—in my earlier days, I’d been reckless. But there was always a chance I wouldn’t make it to forty.
I’d like my death to be interesting and messy. Ideally, making investigators vomit, being the cause of their nightmares. The thought made me smile as I climbed the staircase.
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The following morning, I tied my hair back and rolled up my sleeves, ready to work in the studio. The lighting was perfect, and I’d allowed enough time for snippets of the vision to appear.
Not black.
Not red.
This was blue. The kind of blue you only saw on a clear day, when the sun shone. It suggested life, air, a certain degree of calm.
I loaded the easel with a blank canvas. It was how we came into this world—completely blank. I moved to my table, but paused to stare at the scattered items across the paint-splattered surface.
The palette wasn’t in the right place.
I slowly turned my head and scanned the room. Nothing else seemed out of place. My gaze returned to the table.
My mind wasn’t playing tricks on me.
Someone had touched my palette. I had plenty more—that was beside the point.
The airing closet.
I ran upstairs, through the hall, into the spare bedroom and the closet. All the pieces of stretched flesh were there. I trailed a finger down the long strip pegged to the wire hanger. Neck to spine. Unblemished skin.
I considered the freezer, but I had too much produce covering the body parts in there.
Was I losing it?
Had I carelessly left the palette tilted like that?
It felt tainted.
All thought of mixing my colours for the perfect shade of blue came to a halt. I closed the door and walked down the hallway.
I could use a new palette.
The canvas that had been calling me since yesterday suddenly felt wrong. Perhaps a walk to the shops would clear my head. I needed milk anyway.
?? ?? ??
The walk and fresh air helped, but as I approached my front door, I saw the white box. I gripped the bag handle, forgetting the perishables that needed refrigerating.
A delivery wasn’t unusual. But this wasn’t a cardboard box or a plastic bag.
This had a black ribbon tied around it, gold trim. This was personal. There was no delivery label.
I glanced around—no one in sight. I set my bag on the doorstep and lifted the box. Heavy for its size. My instincts had been right. Someone had been in my studio.
I wedged the box into my shopping bag to unlock the door, it poking awkwardly out the top. Perishables forgotten on the counter, I tore the box open to find a dark brown suede roll bag. I took it out and set it down.
Hair rose at the back of my neck.
No message. No name.
I unbuckled the straps and rolled it open.
It was beautiful. They were beautiful. A full set of knives, alongside a scalpel and even a chisel. A few empty spaces sat at the end. My eyes lingered on them before I traced my fingertips down the suede—nothing like the skin I treated. This was rough.
Someone knew what I was, and they’d dared to defile my sanctum.
My studio.
Angrily, I rolled the knives up, ready to toss them in the bin. But standing over it, I found I couldn’t.
They were an exceptional set of tools. The chisel was inspiring.
My resolve settled.
I would keep them.
But only so I could use them on whoever had sent them to me.