Fields of flowers

I tried to speak to go outside and speak to Jacob, to warn him of Mr. Hyde, but the roses that have been growing outside in spite of the cold weather blocked my path. I moved backwards, knowing there was no doubt that Mr. Hyde had planted them himself, but there were only more roses behind me, and they grasped at my ankles and dragged me below the earth.

When I emerged once more, I was in an endless field of flowers. Mr. Hyde was staring at a house, his back turned to me, just like in Jacob's paintings. He turned around and walked forward, his thorn-dagger raised high above his head.

I stared at him for several seconds, frozen with fear. Then I turned around and ran. After running for several minutes, I stopped to catch my breath. I turned around, and the house was just as close as ever, as was Mr. Hyde.

There was no escape.

Mr. Hyde’s thorn-dagger had grown in length substantially since I last had a clear view of it, and was by then closer to a thorn-sword. He dragged it across the ground as he advanced on me. No roses sprouted from the ground to obstruct my movement as I tried in desperation to flee from Mr. Hyde. This was his personal show, one in which he was both the audience and the star.

I pulled a rose from the ground and stabbed its thorns into Mr. Hyde's chest.

He was still smiling as he stared down at the tears in his suit and the wounds in his flesh. As Mr. Hyde tore the thorns out, the world around us dissolved.

I awoke in our world, the roses wilted around me.

Jacob rushed to my side. "Oh, thank God, Zoe, you’re safe," he said as he extended a hand to lift me up onto the ground. "I’ve been looking everywhere... where were you?"
I threw my arms around him and said nothing. I explained everything later, but in that moment, I was silent.

Somehow, although I do not doubt he is still alive, I feel that Mr. Hyde will not seek to harm us again in the near future.

Thorns

Mr. Hyde was beside my bed as I awoke this morning. His back was turned to me. He turned around as I was looking at him to give me a rose plucked from nowhere.

His eyes were hungry and cold as ever, but for the first time, he smiled with his teeth. They were too sharp and there were too many.

As I sat in bed, clutching the rose to my chest in spite of its thorns and fully expecting to die, he reached out to the rose and took out one of the thorns without bleeding or wounding. It started growing outwards until it was the size of a kitchen knife. Wood overgrown with moss began to grow from the end, and it had become a dagger. Mr. Hyde examined his handiwork carefully, turning it over several times in his pale, thin hands. He ran his finger across the edge, but no blood stained the thorn. His smile was colder and sharper than a dagger.

(I just noticed that I have never seen Mr. Hyde blink. His eyes are always open and ever hungry.)

Mr. Hyde turned around and exited my room, leaving no trace behind but the rose he had given me. After minutes or hours, I cannot say which, I finally left the room. Mr. Hyde was nowhere to be found.

He is not a man. He is not human. He is a monster.

Where the wild roses grow

Jacob showed me the rest of his paintings. All of them are identical. Every last one depicts Mr. Hyde with his back turned to the viewer staring at the same house in the same field of roses.

Jacob's eyes suddenly widened as I looked at the paintings and tried to discern whether they were copies of one another. (They were not; each was painted by hand.) He left the room, and a few minutes later, he returned with painting materials and began to work. It was the same painting as always.

"Wait," I said, "what are you doing?"
"I'm... painting," Jacob said, not looking up. "Don't bother me. I need... I need to work."
"What are you painting?" I asked, hoping to get something more useful out of him.
"The man who knows where the wild roses grow. The smiling man."
"Who is he? Do you know anything more about him?"
Jacob growled under his breath. The sound was animal and pained. "He's the god in my head. He..." Jacob gripped the paintbrush harder. "He's the end of all of us."

Jacob stared at the painting in silence. It was the same painting as usual, as I said. He was able to complete it quickly. Seeing his work, he dropped the paintbrush on the ground and howled, grabbing at his head in what seemed to be pain.

After a moment, Jacob seemed to recover. "He's getting... louder... he's getting louder and I don't know how to get him out."
"Out?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I leaned down beside him. "Out of where?"
"Out of my... out of my brain. Oh, God, it hurts... he's filling my head with his thoughts and it hurts... he's not human. I'm not supposed to have the thoughts he has. I can't... can't take it. I can't..."

Jacob groaned and collapsed onto the floor. I grabbed him before he hit the ground and lifted him onto a chair to rest. I was completely uncertain of how to respond beyond that. As I kept watch over his sleeping form, Jacob began to stir fitfully. He was evidently having terrible nightmares, but I was unable to awaken him. Whatever I did, he remained unconscious.

Finally, Jacob opened his eyes. They looked empty and afraid. With that, he got up and moved to his bed with my assistance. He never asked me why he had been unconscious, and I could only presume that this had happened to him before.

Eyes like teeth

I met Mr. Hyde in the park again. He was sitting down with his back turned to me and picking the petals off roses. He got up and turned to face me, that dreadful smile on his face as usual. He leaned down and picked a rose, which he handed to me. I took it, feeling too terrified to flee or to reject him.

His eyes made me think of mouths filled with sharp teeth. Yet somehow the cold, sharp fear that always accompanied his presence intensified even further when he moved. It was as though his body was put together wrong.

Mr. Hyde bowed slightly as I took the rose, still looking me in the eye. With that, he bounded off, half-running and half-dancing.

Though I may not know the true identity of Mr. Hyde, I know exactly who he is to me. As dreadful as it is, I must accept it. Mr. Hyde is the one who gave me the bouquet of roses, and he is the one infesting Jacob's art.

The painting

Jacob showed me one of his paintings while we were sitting on a park bench. It depicts a suited, red-haired individual standing before a house in a field of roses, their hands in their pockets and their back turned to the viewer. The sky was the purest blue.

Suddenly, I understood why he has been reticent to show his paintings lately.

It was disgusting.

I could not say why. The imagery was benign at worst. Nevertheless, there was something unnerving about it. It was the same sensation I had when I saw the suited man the other day.

 

Admittedly, the individual's turned back did make it difficult to discern whether they were one and the same as the suited man, the one whom I have found myself thinking of as "Mr. Hyde," but it seemed likely, and the possibility unsettled me.

"Who is this?" I asked, pointing at the man in the painting and trying to sound nonchalant.
"Oh, um, nobody in particular," said Jacob. "I just figured I'd show you because you've been asking to see some of my stuff, and I realize I've been acting kind of weird about it lately. So... yeah. Sorry."
"There is nothing wrong with being somewhat protective of your artwork," I said, nodding. I paused for a moment. "Jacob... do you by any chance have a particular fixation with roses? Any sort of interest in them?"
"I... I don't think I know what you mean. I mean, everyone likes roses, right?"
"Let me be frank with you," I said, "I received some roses in the mail recently and I believe they were yours."
"Roses in the mail? I didn't give you any roses. Can't speak for anyone else."
His shoulders were tense and his eyes were darting to and fro. If he was telling the truth, he was nervous for some other reason.

I do not think I understand what his motivation might have been. If he was aiming to show me his feelings, denying he gave me the bouquet would only muddle the issue. Perhaps he regretted the gesture and wanted to disavow responsibility.

However, I worry that Jacob was telling the truth. Certainly, anybody could have placed a bouquet in a mailbox, but a part of me says that it was the man I can only think of as Mr. Hyde.

Roses in the mail

I received a bouquet of roses in the mail today. There was nothing on it, no stamps or anything of the sort. It must have been placed there by hand.

I believe it may have been Jacob. I have suspected he views me as more than a friend for some time now. If that is the case, this is quite awkward. I would not want to break his heart by rejecting him, but I also would not want to pretend I feel something I do not. I certainly would not want to become involved with him while he is acting as strange and callous as he is now, even if I know he has a good side.

I suppose I should wait and see how the situation develops.

Mr. Hyde

I saw a strange man with red hair and a black suit while I was taking a walk. He smiled at me as we passed one another. The gesture is ordinarily rather innocuous, but it sent shivers down my spine.

To be perfectly clear, there was nothing wrong with the man that I could see. He did not say or do anything threatening, nor did I see him at any point before or since.

If you have ever read Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it was much like the way nobody can say just why the appearance of Mr. Hyde disturbs and upsets them. There was a deeply unnerving air to him, and that was all.