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Heather Dowel

By , Indian Land, SC
Heather Dowel! That’s what the cover of the magazine in my hand says in great big, gold letters and cursive font. I couldn’t be more used to seeing my name and face on the cover of a magazine. My first few times, I was so excited for it to be sent out and for people to see it. I wanted to be famous. I am one of the most famous models in the world now. There is not a fashion magazine that hasn’t begged my manager for me to go over to their photo shoots. I have been to Paris, London, New York, Milan, Tokyo, Osaka, and Toronto so many times I’m not even excited about my trips anymore.
The clothes I wear in each shoot are just different outfits by different people in different countries, but they are all the same. They are worth nothing. I used to be astonished by the clothes I could wear and amazed that they would sometimes let me keep them, but I don’t really care anymore. I became a model because I thought it would be fun having people want you like they want me now. I thought I would be important to the world. Modeling and fashion is not important. It's just a waste of time. Why do I do it? I don’t know. I just never took the time to say that I quit.
My manager is an ugly, fat guy named Nate. He is also my sister’s fiancé. He has an odd masculine face with a broad chin, a long nose, and bright red hair. Nate is talking to someone that works for me, one that I don’t even know, about a party they expect me to go to tonight. I used to be so happy when I was invited to parties with popular people and world wide celebrities. Now, I don’t even go to them anymore.
I walk to the other side of the room in my new black ballet boots. For some reason they figured it would be ‘sexy’ for a ridiculously tall women to wear them. Due to my photo shoot being me in ballet boots, fishnets and a small, black bikini, I had to wear a long duster. I grab my duster from the back of a chair and cover my mainly unclothed body and walk out the back door. The back door is a big black door that no one remembers is there that leads to the alleyway. I live in Los Angeles; the alleys are my best friend because they make shortcuts.
I used to be afraid of being by myself here. I was very young during the Manson murders, about four or five, but I was so shocked that Sharon Tate could be murdered so brutally. I couldn’t believe someone would kill someone that was that famous. I was young and stupid, I thought if you were famous and rich no one could hurt you. As if you were immortal. A god of some sort.
I walk home. Home is a house down the road from the Sharon Tate house… or at least where it was before people tore it down and built over it. I live in a big house with more rooms than I need. Most of the rooms in the house are empty. I have a pretty big basement that I like to use for hobbies. The outside of my house looks very beautiful due to its Mediterranean theme and it attracts people for shows like MTV Cribs and other lame shows I wouldn’t waste my time watching.
I never let people come in my house. Nate isn’t even allowed in my house. No one, not family, friends, no one can come in my house. I walk up the stone walkway, holding my duster close around me. I pull the key out from it hiding place in the crack between the end of the walkway and the stone covering the outside wall of my house. Once I get inside, I take off the bad idea of shoes. There is about two or three feet between the front door and the rail of the stairs that lead down stairs.
My house is three floors down. The front door is on the top floor. I look over the rail, smile, and throw the boots down over the rail. It falls past the second floor and lands in the dark, on the first floor with the sound of a thud. About ten feet under the shoe is the floor of the basement. I throw my duster to the floor and run down the stairs to the first floor and stand next to the ballet boots. In front of me is the door to the basement. The smile on my face grows. I feel it slowly getting bigger.
I slowly open the door and walk down the short staircase to the floor of the room. At the bottom of the stairs is a switch. I flip the switch and a small amount of light fills the room.
“Boys, I’m home.” I say to the men I have tied up to metal pillars that hold the house up. Some of them shake and tremble as if they are scare. Some, their heads pop up and look at me with looks of happiness in their eyes.
I look toward the dark corner in the back and see the pile of men that were only once men. Now they are just a pile of the result of my play. One body sticks out from the pile and lays on the floor, face up. I think he was once a hairstylist. Jeremy I think his name was. He had nice hair, he did. Long, straight, and a nice shade of brown. We played a long game of voodoo. By the time we were done, he had tiny holes poked in him everywhere. I knew he was going to die. I had been playing with men for years. These are only a handful of those I have played with. Some of them hate me before we stop our game; some of them end up falling in love with me. Either way, they always end up dead. It is uncontrollable.
I used to feel bad when our games were over, but now, I just pick up another piece and start a new game, continuing on.





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