Shut up, I only want to hear the music, the ventilation and the screeching of the blade of my scalpel on the flesh of the corpse. Silence. Do not breathe anymore. Close your eyes, even your pupils make noise, even your eyes scream in my ears. Get louder. I want to hear Pete Shelley sing and travel at the same time as I travel in the visceres of this stranger. Shh. Her gloomy eyes staring at me, and this mud from the lake where she was spotted made on her skin like a khaki dress. And that tattoo of Kali on her flat stomach, and that red lipstick, almost obscene, on her mouth. Get louder. I do not hear anything. Her long black hair is spread over the oxidized metal. Knots, so much. Algae, too. Sound up, fucking shit. Get louder. Yes, that’s a little better. Let me concentrate now on making a perfect cut on her skin. I have heard that the cuts you make on a dead body appear as tattoos on the bodies of ghosts. Sound up, I said. Yes. Even louder. I want to drown in the music like this woman’s body drowned in the marsh. I want to perform the autopsy to the beat of the drums. Hand me the bowel scissors. Wait, did the body just move? Turn the music louder. I can’t concentrate. I just felt a vibration in her body. Or was it my body? I don’t know what is happening. Where is everyone, why am I alone here? I thought you were dead, I was just performing your autopsy, and now you are holding a scalpel in your hand. That’s mine. Give it back to me. You don’t know how to use it correctly. You are dead. Get louder. Sound up. Who are you? Please don’t kill me, you have to trust me that I am not responsible for your death. I am just performing your autopsy. Hand me back the scalpel. I only want to hear the music. Yes, louder, like that. Of course, I would like to unknot your hair, I will lick the umami algae in your hair. I will do anything you ask me to do. I am at your mercy, my love. If you absolutely have to insert the knife in me, I won’t stop you. Just make the sound louder. Yes. Loud, like that. Not there. Okay, there. Tell me your name, at least whisper it in my ears. I won’t tell anyone. What? Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça? Get louder. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave. Get louder. Yes.

…

M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.