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“What do you say to those people who call you an artistic genius?”
He glanced at the green light on the small recorder in her long, elegant fingers that had been expertly manicured, her nails a deep, enticing shade of red. A small smile touched the corners of the man’s lips, and he looked down at the camera in his hands. Putting on his best face of humility, he turned to her.
“I’m not a genius. I’m just bold enough to be my true, authentic self,” he replied and gestured to his camera. “And through this lens, I show other people their authentic selves as well. My work has resonated with some. If they want to call me a genius, so be it. I don’t let myself get wrapped up in labels or really, the opinions of others. I just like to work.”
He watched her walk around his studio, studying the photos on the walls. He liked what he was seeing. He’d chosen well. Tall and lean but shapely, she had golden-blonde hair in a loose tail that fell to the middle of her back, eyes such a light shade of blue they were almost silver, and classic Hollywood features, she was a stunner. She would look incredible on film. He'd known that from the start.
“Has anybody ever told you that you look like Greta Garbo?”
She turned to him and scoffed. “No.”
“You do. It’s mostly in the eyes,” he said. “But you share similar facial structures as well. I’m serious, you really remind me of Garbo.”
Her laughter rang through the studio. It was a pleasant sound. Her eyes sparkled and she gave him a look that said she knew she was a beautiful woman but out of social propriety, needed to pretend she wasn’t, putting on a false humility. She wasn’t being her true self.
“I’d love to shoot you,” he said and held up his camera.
“Flattering,” she said. “But I’m here to write a profile on you, not be your subject.”
“Can’t we do both?”
She laughed again as she stopped to inspect a series of photos he’d shot of the homeless. The “Hopeless” series shined a bright spotlight on the plight of the city’s most vulnerable and had been widely praised by social justice advocates.
His series, twelve photographs in all, had been what catapulted him into a rarified artistic air. It had provided him with enough attention that made him a minor celebrity. Actual celebrities—A-listers— and other do-gooders who advocated for the poor and other social justice programs had lined up to take pictures with him.
His subsequent work had launched him into the stratosphere. He’d won awards and earned him a shitload of money. He wasn’t a man who liked the spotlight. He shunned it, preferring to work behind his camera in the shadows on the periphery. He didn’t like having attention drawn to him.
But he had to admit, celebrity had his privileges. Opportunities. And paradoxically, he’d found that the more eyes he had on him, the less people actually saw him. He was able to continue his work and live a life as his more authentic self.
“You would look fantastic on film,” he said. “Let me shoot you.”
She returned to the table and stood on the other side of it, studying him closely for a long moment, a playful smile flickering across her lips.
“My editor would be appalled if I posed for you.”
“Your editor wouldn’t have to know.”
“Pictures for your private collection, huh? That doesn’t sound like a perverted come on line or anything,” she teased.
“Nothing like that. This isn’t a boudoir shoot,” he said. “I’m talking about letting me get your authentic self on film. Yes, I’d like to hang your pictures in my gallery when we’re done, but they’re mostly for you. I think you need to see who you really are.”
“And what makes you think I don’t already know?”
He looked deeply into her icy blue eyes. “I can tell. You’ve never really seen your true self. It’s almost like you’re hiding from it.”
“Oh, you’re a psychologist now? A philosopher perhaps?”
He shook his head. “I just know people. I’ve seen the eyes of so many people I’ve learned to see who truly knows themselves… and who doesn’t,” he said. “That’s my gift. I guess, that’s what you’d call my genius.”
“Your ability to see people for who they are?”
“And for being able to show them who they really are.”
“Is that so?” she asked, sounding amused.
“Let me shoot you. I’ll show you.”
“I’m a reporter, not a model,” she said simply. “And my current assignment is to write a profile on you.”
“I think you missed your calling.”
She laughed. “Now that is a terrible come on line.”
“Probably,” the man shrugged with a smile. “But my point still stands. You’re a beautiful woman and you would look amazing on film. Let me shoot you.”
Her expression was reluctant, and she shifted on her feet, feigning discomfort. It was all a mummery of modesty. She was like every other woman he’d shot before in that regard. They all obeyed social norms that forced them to downplay their beauty. He’d known that from the moment he saw her a couple months ago. She had captivated him from the start, and he knew, in that way he always did, that she would be a fantastic addition to his collection. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he knew he had to have her. That he would have her.
Her being there, in his studio, working on a profile hadn’t been her idea. Nor was it coincidence. It was all part of a carefully coordinated dance he’d put into motion the second she’d caught his eye. He knew she was scratching and clawing to get some attention at the magazine she worked for. Her editor didn’t know she was there, nor did he know she was interviewing him. But he knew she hoped to make a splash by interviewing him since he never gave interviews. She hoped it would be a splash big enough to move her up a rung on the ladder.
She was all blind ambition. Her career was the most, perhaps only, thing that mattered to her. But he believed it was only when you combined ambition with a true knowledge of who you were that you could ascend to the top of the heap. That you could be considered—as crude as he found the word—a genius.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Let me show you who you really are.”
“Think you can?”
“Absolutely,” he replied and motioned to all the framed photos hanging on the walls of his studio. “It’s what I do.”
Her eyes drifted from photo to photo, an expression of appreciation mixed with a touch of admiration upon her face. Deep down, people wanted to know themselves. Truly know themselves. She was no different. But most people didn’t have the courage or strength to look deep inside themselves and not flinch. Most turned away and refused to see the truth. He helped them overcome that fear to get to the truth of things. He would help her.
She turned back to him, a small smile curling the corners of her heart-shaped lips. “Let’s do it. Show me what you see.”
“Excellent.”
He watched her long, lithe body moving, his mind and heart racing as he allowed himself to imagine what was to come. She switched off her recorder and dropped it into the pocket of her blazer as she walked to the sideboard in the corner of his studio. His gaze traveled the length of her body and he licked his lips as he drank her in from head to toe.
As if she felt his gaze on her, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled but said nothing. Instead, she finished pouring them both a drink then returned to the table where he stood and put one of the glasses of scotch down in front of him. A nervous, almost shy smile crossed her lips and she lowered her gaze demurely. It was all an act, but she was perfect in a thousand ways.
“I’m not used to being the center of attention. I’m not comfortable with it,” she said softly and raised the glass. “I need a little liquid courage.”
It was self-deception, proving she had never seen her true and authentic self. A woman as beautiful as her was surely used to garnering attention. To claim that she wasn't was just more false humility. He offered her a reassuring smile.
“I get it,” he said and raised his glass and tapped it against hers. “To seeing your true self.”
“To genius,” she replied.
After swallowing her drink, she walked over to the sideboard and grabbed the bottle, returning to the table and refilling their glasses.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a little nervous.”
“Take your time,” he replied. “But you’re worrying for nothing. Everything is going to be fine. I promise you that when we’re done, you’re going to feel… free. Unburdened.”
They made small talk over a few more drinks as he tried to put her mind at ease and get her to relax. She told him about her childhood, about her ambitions, and about whatever else came to mind. He could tell the liquor was starting to loosen her up. That was good. It was almost time.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me get you over into my shooting room.”
She followed him into a room off the main studio floor. He closed the door behind them as she set her bag on the table and turned to him. He flipped on a few lights, looked around, then played with the lighting until he was satisfied. The room was dim and had a moody feel. It was perfect.
“Where do you want me?” she asked.
“Over here.”
He sat her down on a stool in front of a drab gray cloth backdrop. The man walked back to the table and picked up a camera, looking at her through the lens for a moment before walking back over and positioning her body how he wanted her.
“Okay, don’t move,” he said.
He snapped a few pictures from various angles, repositioned her, then took a few more. As he walked back to the table, he started to feel lightheaded. His vision began to waver, and a strange numbness spread through his limbs.
“What the fuck?”
He turned around and flinched when he found the woman standing right behind him, her icy blue eyes boring into his and a cruel little smirk on her lips. She held a small brown, glass bottle up for him to see.
“Doxacurium,” she said. “That’s what you use, right?”
He opened his mouth to reply but found that he couldn’t. His legs buckled and the man felt like he was falling from a great height. And just before his world went black, her voice boomed and echoed around in his head like she’d shouted into a loudspeaker.
“Let me show you my true, authentic self.”
His eyes fluttered then opened and he drew a long, sharp breath as if he’d been trapped beneath the water. His throat was dry, and his heart raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. Fragmented images passed through his mind, the most lasting being that of the woman, the reporter, standing so close to him he could smell the scotch on her breath as she brandished the small brown glass bottle. The memory of her predatory smile sent a cold chill washing through him.
He had no idea how long he’d been out. But if she dosed him with Doxacurium, it had probably been hours. How had she known? What in the hell was going on? When he sat up, he heard the rattle and clank of the chains that bound his wrists and ankles—the wall shackles behind the gray backdrop in his shooting room.
He wasn’t a fearful man, but for the first time, perhaps in his entire life, he hovered on the verge of panic.
“What the fuck?”
The lights turned on with an audible snap that was as loud as a gunshot, revealing the woman sitting on the stool just a few feet away from him. She still wore that enigmatic but disturbing little smile and had a glimmer in his eyes that made him shudder. He swallowed down his fear and shut off his emotion, forcing himself to relax. And to think.
“Who are you?” he asked as he tugged on the chains that bound him. “What is this about?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like a school picture and the blood in his veins turned to ice. The blonde in the photo had the same icy blue eyes as the woman who was staring at him. Of course he knew the girl in the picture.
“I wonder, did you see her true self before you cut her into pieces?” she asked. “Or was it more a matter of making her see your true self? I mean, this is all about you, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know who that is.”
She sighed. “Let’s not play these games.”
He tugged on the chains again despite knowing they would not give.
“I don’t know who you think I am or what I did, but you’re wrong.”
She frowned and got to her feet. His heart dropped into his belly and his throat dried up when she pulled a familiar rolling tray over and picked up a photo album. His private portfolio. She silently flipped through the pages until she came to the section he knew she was looking for. She turned the portfolio around to show him.
“Still don’t know what I’m talking about?” she asked.
He looked at the photos of the blonde when she’d been chained up in the very spot he now sat. He looked at her wide eyes, noting the terror that had been etched into her features. Noting the pain as he'd worked on her. She’d been one of his latest subjects. In many ways, she’d been his best. He had enjoyed every minute he’d spent with her.
The next series of photos depicted the blonde in the hours before her death and the things he’d done to her. Photos that depicted every degradation and cruelty he’d inflicted upon her. The photos were so real. So raw. And even now, he could see the true essence of the girl shining through.
It had all been so satisfying. So gratifying. She had been his favorite subject to shoot and her series was among his best work. Even in his current position, the mere thought of the light leaving her eyes at the end of their session aroused him.
“She was my baby sister,” she said.
“Listen,” he said, quickly licking his dry, cracked lips. “I’m sorry—”
“Not yet. But you’re about to be.”
She set the photo album down and took her time, running the tips of her fingers across the variety of tools and knives he knew sat atop the table. He couldn't see them from his position but he knew every instrument up there. Intimately.
The woman picked up his camera and turned to him, the smile that stretched her lips turning his blood to ice.
“Now. Let’s see your true, authentic self,” she said. “Show me your genius.”
He glanced at the green light on the small recorder in her long, elegant fingers that had been expertly manicured, her nails a deep, enticing shade of red. A small smile touched the corners of the man’s lips, and he looked down at the camera in his hands. Putting on his best face of humility, he turned to her.
“I’m not a genius. I’m just bold enough to be my true, authentic self,” he replied and gestured to his camera. “And through this lens, I show other people their authentic selves as well. My work has resonated with some. If they want to call me a genius, so be it. I don’t let myself get wrapped up in labels or really, the opinions of others. I just like to work.”
He watched her walk around his studio, studying the photos on the walls. He liked what he was seeing. He’d chosen well. Tall and lean but shapely, she had golden-blonde hair in a loose tail that fell to the middle of her back, eyes such a light shade of blue they were almost silver, and classic Hollywood features, she was a stunner. She would look incredible on film. He'd known that from the start.
“Has anybody ever told you that you look like Greta Garbo?”
She turned to him and scoffed. “No.”
“You do. It’s mostly in the eyes,” he said. “But you share similar facial structures as well. I’m serious, you really remind me of Garbo.”
Her laughter rang through the studio. It was a pleasant sound. Her eyes sparkled and she gave him a look that said she knew she was a beautiful woman but out of social propriety, needed to pretend she wasn’t, putting on a false humility. She wasn’t being her true self.
“I’d love to shoot you,” he said and held up his camera.
“Flattering,” she said. “But I’m here to write a profile on you, not be your subject.”
“Can’t we do both?”
She laughed again as she stopped to inspect a series of photos he’d shot of the homeless. The “Hopeless” series shined a bright spotlight on the plight of the city’s most vulnerable and had been widely praised by social justice advocates.
His series, twelve photographs in all, had been what catapulted him into a rarified artistic air. It had provided him with enough attention that made him a minor celebrity. Actual celebrities—A-listers— and other do-gooders who advocated for the poor and other social justice programs had lined up to take pictures with him.
His subsequent work had launched him into the stratosphere. He’d won awards and earned him a shitload of money. He wasn’t a man who liked the spotlight. He shunned it, preferring to work behind his camera in the shadows on the periphery. He didn’t like having attention drawn to him.
But he had to admit, celebrity had his privileges. Opportunities. And paradoxically, he’d found that the more eyes he had on him, the less people actually saw him. He was able to continue his work and live a life as his more authentic self.
“You would look fantastic on film,” he said. “Let me shoot you.”
She returned to the table and stood on the other side of it, studying him closely for a long moment, a playful smile flickering across her lips.
“My editor would be appalled if I posed for you.”
“Your editor wouldn’t have to know.”
“Pictures for your private collection, huh? That doesn’t sound like a perverted come on line or anything,” she teased.
“Nothing like that. This isn’t a boudoir shoot,” he said. “I’m talking about letting me get your authentic self on film. Yes, I’d like to hang your pictures in my gallery when we’re done, but they’re mostly for you. I think you need to see who you really are.”
“And what makes you think I don’t already know?”
He looked deeply into her icy blue eyes. “I can tell. You’ve never really seen your true self. It’s almost like you’re hiding from it.”
“Oh, you’re a psychologist now? A philosopher perhaps?”
He shook his head. “I just know people. I’ve seen the eyes of so many people I’ve learned to see who truly knows themselves… and who doesn’t,” he said. “That’s my gift. I guess, that’s what you’d call my genius.”
“Your ability to see people for who they are?”
“And for being able to show them who they really are.”
“Is that so?” she asked, sounding amused.
“Let me shoot you. I’ll show you.”
“I’m a reporter, not a model,” she said simply. “And my current assignment is to write a profile on you.”
“I think you missed your calling.”
She laughed. “Now that is a terrible come on line.”
“Probably,” the man shrugged with a smile. “But my point still stands. You’re a beautiful woman and you would look amazing on film. Let me shoot you.”
Her expression was reluctant, and she shifted on her feet, feigning discomfort. It was all a mummery of modesty. She was like every other woman he’d shot before in that regard. They all obeyed social norms that forced them to downplay their beauty. He’d known that from the moment he saw her a couple months ago. She had captivated him from the start, and he knew, in that way he always did, that she would be a fantastic addition to his collection. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he knew he had to have her. That he would have her.
Her being there, in his studio, working on a profile hadn’t been her idea. Nor was it coincidence. It was all part of a carefully coordinated dance he’d put into motion the second she’d caught his eye. He knew she was scratching and clawing to get some attention at the magazine she worked for. Her editor didn’t know she was there, nor did he know she was interviewing him. But he knew she hoped to make a splash by interviewing him since he never gave interviews. She hoped it would be a splash big enough to move her up a rung on the ladder.
She was all blind ambition. Her career was the most, perhaps only, thing that mattered to her. But he believed it was only when you combined ambition with a true knowledge of who you were that you could ascend to the top of the heap. That you could be considered—as crude as he found the word—a genius.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Let me show you who you really are.”
“Think you can?”
“Absolutely,” he replied and motioned to all the framed photos hanging on the walls of his studio. “It’s what I do.”
Her eyes drifted from photo to photo, an expression of appreciation mixed with a touch of admiration upon her face. Deep down, people wanted to know themselves. Truly know themselves. She was no different. But most people didn’t have the courage or strength to look deep inside themselves and not flinch. Most turned away and refused to see the truth. He helped them overcome that fear to get to the truth of things. He would help her.
She turned back to him, a small smile curling the corners of her heart-shaped lips. “Let’s do it. Show me what you see.”
“Excellent.”
He watched her long, lithe body moving, his mind and heart racing as he allowed himself to imagine what was to come. She switched off her recorder and dropped it into the pocket of her blazer as she walked to the sideboard in the corner of his studio. His gaze traveled the length of her body and he licked his lips as he drank her in from head to toe.
As if she felt his gaze on her, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled but said nothing. Instead, she finished pouring them both a drink then returned to the table where he stood and put one of the glasses of scotch down in front of him. A nervous, almost shy smile crossed her lips and she lowered her gaze demurely. It was all an act, but she was perfect in a thousand ways.
“I’m not used to being the center of attention. I’m not comfortable with it,” she said softly and raised the glass. “I need a little liquid courage.”
It was self-deception, proving she had never seen her true and authentic self. A woman as beautiful as her was surely used to garnering attention. To claim that she wasn't was just more false humility. He offered her a reassuring smile.
“I get it,” he said and raised his glass and tapped it against hers. “To seeing your true self.”
“To genius,” she replied.
After swallowing her drink, she walked over to the sideboard and grabbed the bottle, returning to the table and refilling their glasses.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a little nervous.”
“Take your time,” he replied. “But you’re worrying for nothing. Everything is going to be fine. I promise you that when we’re done, you’re going to feel… free. Unburdened.”
They made small talk over a few more drinks as he tried to put her mind at ease and get her to relax. She told him about her childhood, about her ambitions, and about whatever else came to mind. He could tell the liquor was starting to loosen her up. That was good. It was almost time.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me get you over into my shooting room.”
She followed him into a room off the main studio floor. He closed the door behind them as she set her bag on the table and turned to him. He flipped on a few lights, looked around, then played with the lighting until he was satisfied. The room was dim and had a moody feel. It was perfect.
“Where do you want me?” she asked.
“Over here.”
He sat her down on a stool in front of a drab gray cloth backdrop. The man walked back to the table and picked up a camera, looking at her through the lens for a moment before walking back over and positioning her body how he wanted her.
“Okay, don’t move,” he said.
He snapped a few pictures from various angles, repositioned her, then took a few more. As he walked back to the table, he started to feel lightheaded. His vision began to waver, and a strange numbness spread through his limbs.
“What the fuck?”
He turned around and flinched when he found the woman standing right behind him, her icy blue eyes boring into his and a cruel little smirk on her lips. She held a small brown, glass bottle up for him to see.
“Doxacurium,” she said. “That’s what you use, right?”
He opened his mouth to reply but found that he couldn’t. His legs buckled and the man felt like he was falling from a great height. And just before his world went black, her voice boomed and echoed around in his head like she’d shouted into a loudspeaker.
“Let me show you my true, authentic self.”
His eyes fluttered then opened and he drew a long, sharp breath as if he’d been trapped beneath the water. His throat was dry, and his heart raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. Fragmented images passed through his mind, the most lasting being that of the woman, the reporter, standing so close to him he could smell the scotch on her breath as she brandished the small brown glass bottle. The memory of her predatory smile sent a cold chill washing through him.
He had no idea how long he’d been out. But if she dosed him with Doxacurium, it had probably been hours. How had she known? What in the hell was going on? When he sat up, he heard the rattle and clank of the chains that bound his wrists and ankles—the wall shackles behind the gray backdrop in his shooting room.
He wasn’t a fearful man, but for the first time, perhaps in his entire life, he hovered on the verge of panic.
“What the fuck?”
The lights turned on with an audible snap that was as loud as a gunshot, revealing the woman sitting on the stool just a few feet away from him. She still wore that enigmatic but disturbing little smile and had a glimmer in his eyes that made him shudder. He swallowed down his fear and shut off his emotion, forcing himself to relax. And to think.
“Who are you?” he asked as he tugged on the chains that bound him. “What is this about?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like a school picture and the blood in his veins turned to ice. The blonde in the photo had the same icy blue eyes as the woman who was staring at him. Of course he knew the girl in the picture.
“I wonder, did you see her true self before you cut her into pieces?” she asked. “Or was it more a matter of making her see your true self? I mean, this is all about you, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know who that is.”
She sighed. “Let’s not play these games.”
He tugged on the chains again despite knowing they would not give.
“I don’t know who you think I am or what I did, but you’re wrong.”
She frowned and got to her feet. His heart dropped into his belly and his throat dried up when she pulled a familiar rolling tray over and picked up a photo album. His private portfolio. She silently flipped through the pages until she came to the section he knew she was looking for. She turned the portfolio around to show him.
“Still don’t know what I’m talking about?” she asked.
He looked at the photos of the blonde when she’d been chained up in the very spot he now sat. He looked at her wide eyes, noting the terror that had been etched into her features. Noting the pain as he'd worked on her. She’d been one of his latest subjects. In many ways, she’d been his best. He had enjoyed every minute he’d spent with her.
The next series of photos depicted the blonde in the hours before her death and the things he’d done to her. Photos that depicted every degradation and cruelty he’d inflicted upon her. The photos were so real. So raw. And even now, he could see the true essence of the girl shining through.
It had all been so satisfying. So gratifying. She had been his favorite subject to shoot and her series was among his best work. Even in his current position, the mere thought of the light leaving her eyes at the end of their session aroused him.
“She was my baby sister,” she said.
“Listen,” he said, quickly licking his dry, cracked lips. “I’m sorry—”
“Not yet. But you’re about to be.”
She set the photo album down and took her time, running the tips of her fingers across the variety of tools and knives he knew sat atop the table. He couldn't see them from his position but he knew every instrument up there. Intimately.
The woman picked up his camera and turned to him, the smile that stretched her lips turning his blood to ice.
“Now. Let’s see your true, authentic self,” she said. “Show me your genius.”