Act 1. Part 3. "... my suspects smolder."

 

Act 1. Part 3.

“… smoldering suspects.”

 

 

 

Guilty.  It’s only one word, but what a word.  It implies so much and seems too certain.  It’s easy and understood.  My suspects are all guilty.

 

Each of these people took my heart.  But only one of them crippled it.  Only one of them destroyed every fiber of my being.  They burned my flesh, scarring my skin into a beautiful tattoo of vengeance.

 

Smoldering.  It’s only one word, but it’s a great word.  Easy and understood.  My suspects smolder.  Yes?

 

This is Shadow.

 

I know. You think he’s cute.  Don’t let him fool you.  He’s not that cute. 

 

He’s conservative"a bit too timid and reserved for my taste.  Sorry Shadow, but you are.

 

I love his hair.  It’s full and wild.  Hair spray.  It’s the only way to tame that immature mane of his.  He doesn’t need it, because he’s an animal"one hundred percent “MAN-I-MAL.”  He’s a rough, torn, broken animal with wide eyes. 

 

No animal needs primped before the hunt. Shadow’s constantly on the prowl. 

 

However, some animals need tamed. I need a well-toned whip to tame Shadow. Message me if you have one I could borrow.  I’m not afraid to use a whip.  I’ve learned to enjoy making men whimper… when warranted.

 

By the way, he smells likes he looks. He doesn’t know this… but when I close my eyes and inhale deeply, I swear he smells like a curiosity shop in a far away place like Italy or Morocco, maybe Turkey.  It’s rustic, earthy, exotic, and unusual.  That’s how Shadow smells.  

 

He also smells of cigarettes, the afterglow of smoke.

 

My Shadow should know better to openly smoke in front of me.  However, he enjoys defying me.  What’s sadder is… I kind of like it. 

 

We fight over his smoking.  I tell him no. He screams.  I say no, louder. He smashes a plate or throws a glass.  He’s very dramatic and particular"compulsive and defiant. 

 

I never quite understood the greed that accompanies passion.  It amazes me how some people can be so passionate and so greedy.  They almost go hand and hand. Oh yeah, I guess it’s one-sided, their passion and no one else’s.  No other passion desired or required. 

 

Greedy spoiled brat. 

 

Shadow can get very mad at the world.  He wants to destroy it. He’s frustrated by the ugliness in it.  Yet he still creates time for me. He makes room in his life for my ugliness.

 

I think Shadow secretly loves me.  He loves a challenge, loving someone like me is a challenge. 

 

He’s a suspect.

 

This is Playboy.  He’s a suspect too.

 

You get the picture.  I like guys that smoke.  I like the roll of a dusty gray coming from their full and parted lips. 

 

He has a narrow mouth. Nice lips, but a small round mouth.  It’s a pretty mouth.

 

He’s casual and tempting. Laissez-faire. Only a French word can fit Playboy. He’s beautifully lazy, sitting around all day.  However, he has a certain degree of slovenly charm about him.  I just kind of want to nestle next to him. 

 

He’s a sleepy Sunday in a cabana.  On a day where you want to move like a sloth, slow time down to absolute nothingness.  

 

I like his eyes.  They remind me of something beautiful and harsh, like the current in the ocean.  They’re narrow, barely alert, yet they watch everything.  He pays attention to the smallest details, like what I wore yesterday or who I’ve been looking at.  He remembers what he sees with those beautiful and harsh eyes. He’s a well-guarded soldier.   

 

He’s definitely the type of guy I should stay away from… a real bad boy, hidden behind an all American look. 

 

Playboy doesn’t like conventional work. Let’s just say he enjoys playing. He’s definitely a “pay for play” type of guy, if you know what I mean. 

 

He makes ends meet just by being, well, him… Playboy.

 

By the way, I like his suit.  Way to go Playboy. Yeah, I really like his suit.  It shows off his body. That’s the nice thing about Playboy.  He certainly knows how to dress.  He always has the right piece of clothe to cover his body.  He’s lucky that way, very ready to wear. 

 

Playboy makes accidents workable.  His best weapon is his nonchalant attitude where everything is as it should be. It’s the same attitude that didn’t seem to care about whether or not I loved him.  Like I said, he can be harsh… and a suspect.

 

This is Diablo.  Another suspect. Another project. 

 

He likes it when ugly things domineer him. Like in a picture, he’ll pose next to something huge and atrocious. He wants the ugly statue to dwarf him.

 

He’s an artist.  He engineers everything.  You didn’t think I would notice"did you, Diablo? You like it when I notice the subtle strokes of genius in your work.

 

Diablo architects everything, including his self-portraits.  He creates his own beauty from the misfortunes of others.  He creates beauty from ugliness. I’m proud of his artwork. I fear it too.

 

Fortunate enough for me, he likes ugly.  He likes the sincerity that surrounds something grotesque. It’s a good thing. I’m not exactly a looker any more.  I’m ugly, real ugly… truly and madly.   

 

He likes me to pose for him wearing a small silk scarf I bought off a homeless woman.

 

I enjoy Diablo’s architected look, from his pointed chin to his flattened hair. It’s all well-manicured. That’s the Devil for you… tailored to meet your needs.

 

He’s pale, ethereal, and wise.  But, he has a flare for evil.  Diablo can be sinister. He has a wicked streak in him.  He loves watching the discomfort associated with pain.   

 

He makes me do things.  Things I don’t want to do.  He makes me swallow his, well, pride.  It tastes thick and organic. He makes me… perform. 

 

He’s twisted and relentless, yet his desire is weak and fragile.  Deep down, I want to protect whatever remains of his fragile passion. It’s the only thing that makes him human, worthy. 

 

By the way, Diablo has a nasty habit.  Yeah, you guessed it.  He smoked.

Ahhh Dealer.  He’s my favorite suspect. 

 

I like his glassy eyes.  I like his hairy chin.  I like the smudges of carbon he carries on his body.  I like his intensity.  Don’t you?  Don’t you just want to drift away a Monday afternoon in those intense and clear eyes?

 

I could look at him all day.  I really like how his lips look moist and shiny.  YUMMMEEE!

 

Dealer’s a big bad wolf. Let me repeat that. A BIG…, BAD…, DIRTY… WOLF.  He stands c**k-sided and wears off-centered clothing.  He’s a nasty boy.

 

He’s my drug man.  He keeps me appropriately dosed on euphoria.  He peddles to my craving for a higher moment. Take me higher Dealer.

 

He’s kind too.  He provides wake after wake of pleasure. He provides so much pleasure, I don’t know if I can take it all in.  I’m like a kid in a candy store. He has so many bright, shiny, colorful… tools. I don’t think I can resist.  I’m feeling quite gluttonous.  It’s tempting, Dealer, so tempting. 

 

Dealer sustains me. In a cold and barren city filled with people, he alone sustains. His magical elixir revives me.  He knows how to get me out of bed every morning.   His secret spices in the evening let me sleep.  He knows how to sustain my moods. I like that in a man.

 

He dares me to laugh, especially when the joke isn’t funny.  He appreciates disrespect. 

 

I oblige him. I cater to Dealer’s fantasies and whims, because you always pay the drug man.  The one bill everyone pays on time.   

 

He makes me feel like dancing, and I like dancing when I’m with Dealer. He doesn’t dance with me, but he does dance beside me.  I like it better that way. He doesn’t invade my space. He lets me be me.

 

Dealer’s the full moon. There when you least suspect it, yet his schedule’s very routine.  When he does shine, it’s a strong presence. Funny, it’s always too short of a moment.  He’s just like any other addictive drug. He generates a long moment that never lasts long enough to be worth the effort.   

 

The problem with dealer is that you can never count on him. He’s like a ghost. He only appears when you don’t expect to see him.  He fades in, and then fades out.  But when he shows himself, it can be pure rapture.  It’s free, dirty and unsettled love.

 

I wonder what it would be like to turn the tables on him and invade his space. I wonder what it would be like to cage the big, bad wolf.  What would he do to free himself from the confines of a cage? Now, that is a fascinating question.

 

This is angel.

 

That’s my name for him, not his.  His real name?  Well, it doesn’t matter, because he’s another suspect.  He’s a biblical suspect, someone to be revered. 

 

He’s probably blushing if he’s reading this right now.  I’m sure he never considered himself a religious moment.  You are, Angel… you are a religious moment.   

 

He’s like a Greek sculpture, pure and unaltered.  He’s restrained with an angelic splendor. He is divine. It’s an easy sentence to say about Angel.  It’s ok. He deserves it.

 

Too bad he’s a suspect.  But aren’t most angels suspicious?  Who could be so nice without knowing how to be so vicious?  Only angels can.  Beware the potential sinner who covets the sin. Angels can be cruel to the unadorned.  Just ask him.  

 

He prefers his torso hairless.  He shaves his body and soul routinely, removing unwanted stubble.  In fact he obsesses over it. I’ve watched him play with his wide variety of razor blades at 4:00 in the morning.  He can’t resist running his finger tip along the metal surface.  He never fails to bleed.

 

Most angels show mercy.  Angel only shows me fleeting moments of mercy. 

 

He’s a poet.  I know. It’s not something you hear everyday.  Nobody’s poetic anymore, well, except for Angel. He reads me beautiful and moving words, all strung together with one sad and enduring thought.

 

He rarely smiles.  That’s ok. He’s more attractive when he’s sad. His smile doesn’t work for me.

 

Angel can be moody, and he’s moody quite often. He’s quick to judge. Angel hates others for their tendencies. He despises the cruelty of humanity and other people can be so cruel. I wonder if God’s first angel of destruction was a poet too.

 

Angel is beautiful.  I think he’ll be more beautiful whenever he finishes. I hope it’s soon. 

 

The Dame. My Dame.  

 

My perfectly and lovely Dame. She’s graceful and elegant. She’s a handmaid to honor, inspiring desire. Underneath her beautifully dark lipstick, she’s native and raw.  She’s incessant and ruthless about control.  I don’t blame her I would be too.

 

I adore her.  I worship her.  On many days, I wish I was her. 

 

I wish I had elbows like her. They’re perfectly pointed and refined, free from any scars or unpleasant disfigurations.  They look like they belong to a real woman"someone full of grace and promise.

 

She is innocent and sweet, almost untouched. Privately, behind the curtain, she displays the passion in her soul. 

 

I am at a loss for words. She is so completely fortunate and rapturous. I shudder that she might be a suspect too.  It wouldn’t be fair.

 

But, and there’s always a but. I wouldn’t be honest to myself if I said I didn’t suspect her too. After all she broke my heart.  She didn’t mean to, but she did. 

 

I know she can be vulnerable, because she demands perfection.  She counts it.  She relies on it. I wonder if she can be misled when convenient.  She can be quick to teach and then follow. I should know better than anyone else.

 

She radiates.

 

And this one, this one you can call Detective. 

 

Don’t be fooled like I was.  He’s a suspect too, and a major one. 

 

Anyone that can solve a crime, in theory, is capable of committing the same crime.  Detective is one ambitious thought away from committing so many unspeakable acts. I kind of respect him for that. He’s close to danger"teetering.

 

He understands violence.  His wrath is learned. He knows irrational and rational.  He’s familiar. Plus, Detective has a great body to escort his familiar, yet mediocre mind. 

 

I love his presence. It’s rogue and distant, pensive. It works me. Just like sometimes anger works for me.

 

Detective has this look.  It’s an odd look, kind-of unique.  Sometimes he looks confused, slightly raising an eyebrow and leaning into me like he’s paying attention.  He grants a squint of his left eye.  He looks like he’s peering through a secret dimension, unraveling the cosmic mysteries of time.  Or, maybe he just forgot where he put his wallet.  Well now, that’s Detective for you. 

 

He’s a dusty boy, mainly jeans and t-shirt type of dusty.  He smells brutal, like sweat from a tiny, dark lounge. He’s salty, rugged.

 

Detective likes belts, the bigger the better. It draws attention to his many endowments.  Maybe he thinks a big belt is functional, like a holster, a prop. 

 

He’s a sheriff… a western cowboy, a gunslinger. 

 

I get distracted looking at him. Look at those biceps.  I could lick his biceps. I wonder if he would notice. I don’t want to consider him a suspect. He’s too tasty.

 

Oh what the hell, it’s early in the game.  He can be a suspect… I hope his girlfriend doesn’t mind.

This suspect is one I call Trainer. 

 

He has a great smile.  He understands me. 

 

He calls his art and artistry therapy.  He not only repairs me, he heals me from the outside in. He tells.  I learn.  He shows.  I do. He smiles.  I try. He trains and I heal.

 

He looks inviting. And I… envy him. He makes me envious.

 

I adore Trainer. He’s my type of suspect. 

 

I want him to smile when he’s in my presence.  Is there any greater compliment? Anything greater at all? 

 

His smile works for me. I love his broad smile and the way his narrow eyebrows pull me closer to his intentions.  I like his dimples. 

 

I enjoy his hairy armpits.  It’s what separates the men from the boys"armpits. 

 

Trainer likes progress.  I have to show him advancement.  I have to constantly achieve. That’s a problem.  I’m not one to advance quickly.  I tend to stutter. I rarely appreciate progress.  That’s one of the reasons why I have such a problem.  I stuttered one too many times with some of the most important questions in my life.   

 

I value Trainer, but I don’t know too much about him.  We’re not intimate.  I just know his friendly demeanor, a nurturing and attentive behavior.  I wish he was stronger.  I wish he could patiently wait.  But I understand why he doesn’t. He doesn’t smile when he waits. He’s the first in the roll call of suspects.

 

Suspects. 

 

Who burned me while I was still alive?

 

Shadow, Playboy, Diablo, Dealer, Dame, Angel, Detective, or Trainer? 

 

It’s a difficult choice.  I know, because each of them smolder.

 

Reviews

[D1218]

I was trying to decide which character I liked the most - and couldn't
They all fascinate me :D
I can see how they'd each be heartbreakers in their own way
I love this chapter the most so far...
Keep writing :)

[Sean M. Addams]

awesome chapter ... keeps getting nbetter and better..

[ScarlettTheDreamer]

Wow that's one descriptive chapter. It not only added more mystery to the story and more info on the suspects, but showed a lot about her too. Can't wait for the next chapter!