We All Have Our Small Beginnings Though
Full intention. The last resort. I’m in your house. It’s my job to kill you. I’m looking at your photos. Your parents’ golden anniversary pictures are a nice touch. I remember how scared you were that day. How I had to talk you into going. We look so happy. The best of friends. So how did we get here? It had been easily 7 years since any one of us had spoken of personal matters. The three of us. Three musketeers. You changed. Politics. I never would have pegged you for it. Steven Malcolm. Male model, Yes. Superficial liar, No. And here I am, your best friend here to kill you. Hired by the other best friend who you’ve manipulated and he wants you out. I remember us in college. We all wanted to change the world. The three artists bent on making the world a better more beautiful place. What happened to us? It’s only a matter of time before you had Ethan killed. He just caught me first.
Ethan Lambrey. Artistic genius. GLAAD poster self made-man. Fashion Designer of the year. World wide extraordinaire. He was the CEO of a self made brand that just opened a chain of boutiques in Paris, Rome, Milan and New York but never in LA, far too tacky. According to Ethan, those starlets with their insecurities and stylists with a name to make were far too dangerous to his notoriety. One ugly red carpet moment and it would essentially all “go up in flames”. Ethan was never one to exaggerate about things he was passionate about. Ethan had been worried for some time about you. You financed his company and then shut him out. His success came at the cost of a lifelong friendship.
Steven Malcolm. Brilliant man. Charming and attractive. Hollywood came to court and you refused out of true instinct. Not one man could have ever competed with your own brand of glamour. Honestly it’s that charm of yours that makes you a true natural for politics. Someday you’ll rule the world. I’m sure of it. The maneuver into politics was by chance but successful nonetheless. The man you once called father, introduced you to a manipulative circle of society. The Hand. They were responsible for the placement of the last three presidents into office. You, the new poster child, ran for a senate seat and won. Youngest senator in history.
Which comes to me. At long last the lady with a dark secret. Professional killer by mistake. At least in the beginning it was an accident. I hadn’t planned on this becoming a career. Fell into it you could say. My fiancé was a bad man once. Kept me locked away in a sense; protected me from “the evil of the world”, according to him and hid the most terrible, unimaginable things. Until one day, I came across the girls. The ones he kidnapped, raped, mutilated, and tortured. His home was sprawling and quite extravagant. I never would have known, but by chance, my needlepoint fell that day. Needle rolling under the chair next to the wall, where there should not be a hinge let alone a door, but alas. No locks to stop an intruder. But I didn’t free them. I was shell-shocked and couldn’t breathe. Confronting him would have sealed my doom. So being the resourceful young woman, I saw no other option but to take his life. I poisoned his bourbon and slit his throat before bed that night. The next day “The Hand” contacted me. Of course they knew of his activities, but saw no reason to interfere due to his discretion. They offered and I became an anonymous killer. Beautiful by day, Deadly by night.
We all have our small beginnings though.
Back to me in your house. Surprise, the key still works. It’s a miracle you still use this house. You have 20. This one is the most like home though. It’s the one your parents left you before they died. You always were a sentimental fool. I can still find my way through this place blind folded. Ranch style. Recessed ceiling in the living room. Kitchen/Dining room. Wooden floors. You’ve changed it a bit with your modern flairs, the Mies Van der Rohe Chair with matching table and Japanese wood block prints. I slink through the hall, glancing at pictures of happier times. Occasionally I find myself staring back at a mirrored younger version. I reach the far end of the hall where a light is on in your office. I open the door which is already slightly ajar, to find you asleep at the oversized wooden desk. No security here. You are brave. And all alone. I’m surprised again. I walked over at look at the computer. You were working, but something is wrong with the screen. Shit. You weren’t alone. You’ve been drugged. I take action. Damn. Wasn’t I supposed to be killing you?
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Here's number two for the week. This is the second part of 'something bigger'... I hate working in pieces, or in length, cause the process is maddening. However this is quite different and unfolding. I've been playing with it for a while. If you don't recall the first part from earlier this year I reposted it. Again the original inspiration was a song. This piece is built from something I created ten years ago and its purpose is meant to be longer than anything else. Anyhow, I don't know where this is going. I hope it's appreciated. Enjoy? M.
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This can’t be happening… Reacting quickly I immediately kill the light in the room. Looking over your shoulder and out the window I can see the empty street. Whoever drugged you wasn’t planning on my arrival. The neighboring houses are black. This isn’t a good sign. Something is waiting out in the dark. No choice. We need to leave immediately. The tiny office is in disarray. Maneuvering closer until I find a way around the oversized desk to assess the situation that I’m working with. Minimal damage and at least you’re still breathing. Whatever were you working on? Scattered trail of papers on the floor leave no real answers. What little remains of the computer is useless. Desk drawers are completely empty and the bookshelf nearby has been pilfered clean. Where’s your security detail during all this? No matter. I need to move you. Simple enough, I reach under your arm and lift. Deadweight. Quite the muscular build still. Heavy. I can’t carry you for long. Despite the politics you’ve managed to stay in shape and looking good. Vanity. Won’t matter if we can’t get out of here. Sitting ducks if we stay.
Movements are deceptive in the shadows. Although it appears we are making headway I’m slowly dragging your body through house and running out of time. Things aren’t the way they should be. The plan was simple. Slip into the house and silently handle these affairs unseen. But that isn’t the case. Waking you up is the greater issue at stake. The longer you remain unconscious I worry that the odds are stacked towards death. With far too many unanswered questions I need you alive. And we need to get moving now. Time to wake up sleeping beauty. Set your unresponsive body on the le Corbusier chaise as I reach into my jacket for the kit. Adrenaline junkie down to the core, I carried a small emergency stash of necessary drugs. Examine the patient briefly as I roll up a sleeve to find a vein. There’s a thin line of blood trailing along your forehead. This will be one headache you won’t forget. Injection is swift. One for me, one for you.
Perhaps Ethan doubted my abilities to accomplish the job. Doubting my convictions would have been reckless on his part. Who would stop me from returning the favor? But Ethan was the sort of fellow that saw no real harm in sending in his own form of reinforcements. The genius madman of fashion had more enemies than friends. All petty little bitches, quite literally stabbing each other in the back to get ahead in the so-called fashion game. All because of one fatal indiscretion. Tigneallatio was Italy’s finest house of exclusive couture. A secretive house that was quite selective of its clientele and hidden to the public. Knowledge of the whereabouts was highly restricted and participation gained by invitation only. Designers were handpicked to join the restricted elite. Obviously the old regime was standing in the way of any ‘up and comer’ trying to break into the game. Having the head of the family murdered during Spring Fashion Week last year was toasted as the highlight of the season. The coup was organized among a handful of smaller houses, including the House of Lambrey, that fueled the cause. The strong-arming of Tigneallatio spread waves of distrust. Fear and paranoia ran rampant among these houses leading to cutthroat behavior. The budding House of Lambrey fell under attack. When Ethan begged for Steven’s help, the door slammed shut. Ethan needed your connections to stay afloat, instead all he had left was your money. Ethan swore vengeance and sought out to destroy his only friend. Truth be told Ethan had every right to doubt me as well. Killing Steven was my secondary agenda. "The Hand" had other plans and my instructions were quite simple. Simple enough.
Pacing. Waiting. There’s no time for this. You’re still unconscious, but the breathing is picking up now. If I can get us moving soon, there is a possibility of escape. Slipping out of the house unnoticed wouldn’t be difficult. Right now, I need to find another mode of transport. Whoever set this up would have seen me walk into the place. I’m guessing there are a couple of cars in the garage, but that would be too obvious. Knowing you the most extravagant and conspicuous. The Ferrari or the Bentley. Not the type of attention we need right now. With the next step I’m certain there’s someone out there a couple behind. Laying in wait. Nonetheless we have to find a way out. I can hear movements outside the front of the house. Slowly I stop my pace across the living room. From the corner of my eye, I can see the slight silhouette of a shadow as it bounces off the wall in the entry. The drugs aren’t working fast enough and we’re about to have company. Steady the gun and prepare myself.Before I can let out a breath there’s movement in front of me. Damn. You’re awake. Don’t say a word.
Raising my free hand, I signal your silence. In comes the shadow. Without hesitation shots are fired. Shadow’s dead. I’m hit. Bleeding. Fading. Can I trust you?
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