Full Intention: Chapter 4 - Where Am I?

Where am I? 

#4

I was nineteen, when I met a man named Steven Malcolm. We met another man, Ethan Lambrey while attending art school. The three of us became dearest friends. When I was twenty-two years old Steven walked me down the aisle in a wedding dress hand tailored by Ethan. That was supposed to be my happy ending. And it was for five years.

Steven and Ethan, would have had the fashion world at their feet. Steven was on every magazine. Ethan’s designs opened doors and made him a name. Networking opened doors for Steven. Steven opened more doors for Ethan. Ethan opened up shop. And then two. And then three. And finally four. Steven fell into politics. It was supposed to be their happy ending. And then there was five years.

Five years, things changed. My husband became a monster. Steven wouldn’t release his rights to Ethan’s business. And another two years passed. No one talked to anyone, but things changed.

Miscommunication is how wars get started.

I’m not sure how long I was out, but with a jump my eyes pop open. Body jumps to life with a wave of panic. Heart pounds within my chest. A jolt of fire pulses through my veins like a hot inferno.  A hand braces my shoulder pinning me downward. My eyes follow the hand upward  along the arm that is connected. It’s attached to a man wearing surgical scrubs. Resting above a thin white mask, two grey eyes peer downward at me. His voice says to stay still.

I can’t relax. This isn’t Steven. Where am I?

Above there is a bright lamp in an otherwise dark room. We are the only thing visible in this vacant space. But all in all, not the only thing here. Small hums and whispers reach out from the distant portions of dark. My ears strain to place Steven’s voice among the whispers. Nothing.

The stranger continues to say relax. In his other hand there is a threaded needle in his waiting grip to descend upon the wound in my chest. Carefully the needle dives inward and outward. Above and below the thin layer of skin the skilled fingers of the tailor dress the wound. There are a handful of stitches neatly completed. Relaxing, he moves himself from my shoulder and concentrates on this work.

Something about this moment reminds me of Ethan. Like a dressmaker following a pattern to sew up a garment this surgeon follows the folds of the body to close up an incision. Tiny finger movements. Delicately tending the open space. Fitting me back into my own skin like it were a torn dress. Ethan used me for fittings on occasion. The same hand movements climbing up my neckline and back down around my waist; carefully pinning the extra fabric when necessary. But there’s something else about it that I can not place.

Another jolt of hot fire jumps through my veins. My surgeon removes a large needle from my left leg. I can only wonder “What is that?”

Voices are growing louder in the far corner of the dark. It’s Steven and another man that I can not recognize by the sound of his voice. He has a thick accent. Cajun with a slight hint of a southern drawl. It seems like an older gentler man. They aren’t discussing anything particular. Sounds like the weather. It’s too far off. To hear more, I would need to move. And with that thought I look down at my body that’s unresponsive.

Below the hands continue to sew together the fleshy portions. Up and down the needle continues to move. I can feel it. A dull sensation. The voice asks me to sit still. Reminds me that this will hurt less. The voice is growing familiar. The others are no more than a hushed sound in the back of room.

Perhaps it’s the drugs he keeps giving me. Perhaps I’m hallucinating. Perhaps there are no voices.

But there are voices.

The stitching is fashioned in a unique manner. It almost resembles something I’d only seen one other place before. A light skin colored fabric that felt like a sheath of natural skin gliding over the body. A one of a kind garment fashioned to fit only one type of body. Mine. And those grey-green eyes are something I can only place in one memory. Nineteen standing in the corner of a fabric studio with a hand placed on my collar bone pinning the folds of a flesh colored dress. Accidentally pinning my hand. Apologizing with an unmistakable look of sympathy in his grey-green eyes and that same voice that reminds me to please sit still.

“Ethan?”

Arrived home early this morning to discover broken glass, an old Patrick Nagel print [irreplaceable] that I’d preciously held tightly to for many years… in a manner of speaking it fell and the glass shattered in one corner. It was an odd thing to me and I should be more upset. Yet I’m not. Disappointed, yes. A little sad, yes. Mad, hurt, or vengeful, no. Some things have to remain in perspective. Possession is impermanent. However, I’ve spent a portion of the day cleaning up the pieces and the whole mess brought to mind a piece I’d been working on in early January. It was an idea that had consumed my attention the last few days of December, when my HD had crashed. Needless to say it’s time to delve back into it. For now… here’s another installment. #5 will be up this week. Enjoy. m.

#1 & 2 - Full Intention/Can I Trust You?

#3 - Who Are You?

Full Intention: Chapter 3 - Who Are You?

Gonna post at the top. Once in a while... have to. I've been pushing myself to wrap up all these little things, including some older business. Like this. Originated nearly ten years back and inspired in part by a song. This is part of something bigger. It was the first thing I purposely wrote in flash that was intended to go in a serial fashion. Maybe it will be a book! 

Enjoy! M.

Full Intention / Can I Trust You?


Who Are You?

Coming to. My face welcoming a cold rush of air. Head leaning sideways with a mass three times its normal weight. Surprisingly, I know this place. I’ve been here a thousand times before. Watching you drive. Body tilted against the cold soft leather cushion of your Dad’s vintage ’68 Mustang. Eyes tracing the lines of your silhouette as you grip the wheel and stare out at the road ahead. Speeding down a two lane stretch through the night. Occasionally bright illumination shines in, as the car drifts into the unknown. The lights of the streets flicker past with the shutter speed of an old film. Fleeing in this car was a smarter move than I gave you credit for. The bigger surprise, you still own it. Shocking that a piece of nostalgic memorabilia from your past resides side by side with the overindulgent modern extravagances you’ve acquired. Truly it’s these small sentimental gestures that spare you from becoming a monster.

Swallowing hard, I close my eyes and sigh.

Remembering better days sitting in the passenger side of this car. The familiar smell of the upholstery and comforting knock of the keys against the steering column bring back memories that seem like a thousand years ago. Another lifetime. The first trip back home when you brought me over to meet your family. It was a lovely introduction to this fiery red head with her racing lines and smooth interior. Dad’s prized showgirl. And he gave her to you. Dim light of the dash snaps me back into the present and away from the past. Too many memories filled with laughter, at a moment when it didn’t matter.

Tonight, there are no such pleasantries.

From where I’m seated, the revolver resting in your lap is completely visible. Safety is off. I guess you don’t trust me. The blame can’t be placed with you. Years spent in silent opposition without resolution. Despite that you saved my life. If the roles were reversed who knows what I would have done. Owing my life, to the fact that I saved yours. Trust makes no difference at the moment. I’m hit and by looks of it your right arm has been grazed by fire. The blood stain spreads down your shirt, from shoulder to elbow. Eyes remain forward focused on the unfamiliar. Signs and roads I’ve never seen.

“I’m not hit.”

“Where are we going?”

“I have a friend.”

“Can…”

“Can you trust me? Don’t worry about it.”

“Trying to pretend the past never happened?”

“Unless you want to die? Rest.”

Die? That’s a laugh as I take note of the situation. Aside from all the unanswered questions, there are a too many other reasons to keep going. Take another deep breath and release. Breathing proves to be uncomfortably challenging but not impossible. My chest wound stings but it isn’t going to kill me. At least not right away. The possibility of a punctured lung or broken rib might pose more of a threat to my health. My point being, that I may die, but at the moment I can’t get into it.

Continuing to watch you drive is like watching you on television. Behind that facade lays an intellectual giant that can talk politics and sell them the same way as Men’s fragrances. Gifted. Unlike the other politicians, your public donations are legitimate. Generous. A politician with a heart. Ethan was right to worry about things when you changed. Enigmatic. Distancing yourself from the past and becoming immersed into this life. Who are you?

What kind of trouble could you be in? The worst kind if I was called in. The Hand doesn’t trust you anymore. But they don’t want you dead. Why? Try to think where I come into this mess. Who would have double-crossed me? Regardless of the circumstances, this is bigger than Ethan. He was merely a pawn in another man’s game. A cross, whether it was in or out of season, wouldn’t have suited Ethan. Besides, those shadows weren’t his type of reinforcements. The elaborate rouse to cover the tracks leads me to believe there is more.

Thinking back to the house and the small details I’d overlooked. Someone was there before. Showed up wanting something. On the computer? Forget it. It was much more than that. This person went to great lengths to find you alone. Why were you alone? Lack of security in the last place anyone would think to find you. A meeting. With a person you trusted enough to meet alone. And who didn’t kill you in a dark house with no alarm? Unless… alone… the computer… the drugs… you’re working for someone else. Set-up. My planned arrival set things into motion. Simple instructions provided an interruption with a purpose of cover for an unseen escape. You used Ethan. Ethan used me. I’m alive because you needed me. Who are you Steven Malcolm?

Full Intention: Chapter 1 & Chapter 2 - Can I Trust You?

The Full Intention

[This is... Part of 'something bigger'. Very necessarily because chapter one precedes the next... ]

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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Can I Trust you? 

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?

Full Intention: Chapter 1 - 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 its 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?




AHA! This one is different. Call it ‘part’ of “something bigger”. I don’t know if anyone recalls me talking about a larger piece. This is part of it. It was originally a rough draft I’d began years ago. About 10 yrs to be exact. I can not believe I held onto those notes! Back then its origin was inspired by a song (Pigeonhead - The Full Sentence) and a couple of friends. And I think one friend out there will be quite shocked to realize its manifestation. I was actually a little shocked myself, after resurrecting the original and finding that I had to do very little tweaking. On another note, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been adding some individual touches to each of the last few stories to personalize them. These are very small details. PLEASE re-read them if you missed any. Well, for today I’m still off playing in the city and will return home soon. Good night. m.