Hell's Actor-Chapter 234: Aesthetic

With fluidity, Charles took out a chilled bottle of water from the fridge and balanced it atop his forehead.

The cold that seeped into his skull seemed as pleasant as the sight of the gently swirling water bathed in the purple light.

The sound of the leaky faucet disturbed him.

Six drops per second.

Still, he didn’t let it bother him.

As the fridge door closed, his gaze fell on the picture attached to it.

It was a beautiful picture by most standards. But to him, it seemed imperfect.

Something niggled at the back of his mind.

The picture wasn’t right.

No, it certainly was not right.

’But... No, it’s not.’

The deep recesses of his mind struggled to comprehend the contradiction in his feelings. The neurons sent contradicting signals. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Somewhere between understanding and doubt, his expression remained.

He felt put off. It was unpleasant, his taunting fiancée in the picture.

She looked so right only days ago.

Yet here he was, entertaining incongruous thoughts. He sighed, tossed away the bottle, and leaned against the window pane.

The sound of the leaky faucet irked him, but he found solace in the darkening purple of the signboard.

They needed to replace the tubes, he thought. They could steal from somewhere; it’d be a pain, but that option was always open.

The wide shot captured from the back persisted for seconds, even though no activity could be seen.

It was a familiar scene, yet the beauty of mise en scène and the precision of chiaroscuro only seemed to sharpen.

Josephine Petite watched the scene with admiration. Something about Charles this time around felt more eye-catching, more intriguing.

He felt more alive.

Her hand reached across the handrest; she had a question for her co-star. But her hand grazed only the air.

He wasn’t there.

She looked around, but she couldn’t find him. When he had slipped off was more of a mystery to her than where he had slipped off to.

***

Averie stood in front of the wide mirror of the men’s room.

Water dripped from the tips of his hair. It flowed down his nose and cleared his fatigue.

In the mirror, his reflection stared back, its gaze slightly less grave. But what Averie saw was the impossible.

He saw her.

He saw his most difficult portrayal.

He saw The Lady.

Once again, he splashed water over his face, but the sound of the running tap didn’t reach his ears.

He ferociously rubbed his face as if he were scrubbing away blood stains from his laundry.

But she didn’t vanish, and the burning in his chest only intensified.

It felt like something etched there was on fire.

’But what?’

He couldn’t even remember it.

The closer the face of The Lady got, the more difficult it became to observe his surroundings.

He remembered feeling like time itself was slipping out of his fingers before someone opened the door to the washroom, and everything went black.

When he came to, he couldn’t recall how much time had passed.

He found himself taking a deep breath in front of the theater doors. The attendant let him in, and within a few minutes, he was back in his seat.

For better or worse, Josephine didn’t inquire once.

On the screen, the pair was performing together.

"To the left." Marianne rocked side by side, both arms slung over Charles’ shoulders. "Gently, to the right."

The hall was exclusively reserved for the two. No one else was there, not even the servants.

The tables were covered with a silver-white tablecloth. Wine glasses came in all sizes. The curtains and the carpets were red.

"Observe, and commit it to memory. This is how it will be on our wedding day."

A gramophone played the classics.

"And—stop." She stared into his eyes. "Good."

It didn’t seem like a lot of time had passed since Averie left and returned.

Marianne straightened a crease on Charles’s coat. "You must take care of your wardrobe."

She had provided it for the practice dance.

"To be cultured and groomed is part of the high society."

She was preparing him for their marriage and, by extension, also for his inclusion in high society.

"Your steps aren’t firm." Her voice was just as nonchalant as her expression. "There won’t be a dance if you can’t lead."

All those instructions, every word of hers, seemed distant to Charles. It felt like he hadn’t slept in days.

But indeed, he hadn’t.

Images and words seemed to mix into each other. Surroundings became blurry, the chirping of birds stopped, and the buzzing of insects began.

He found himself on a white marble gazebo. Lit by a hundred paper lamps and surrounded by flowers, it was situated on an Eastern garden pond.

He saw her there, just past the gazebo, on the moonlit bridge.

She was wearing a veil, but he knew it was her.

He always knew when it was her.

Slowly, like a man choosing a grave fate, he marched towards her.

Even as he stood a mere foot away, she didn’t spare him a glance. She remained as transfixed on the moon as he was by her.

Charles wanted to ask her for something, but nothing came to mind.

He continued stupidly staring at her face through the veil obstructing it, but he couldn’t make out the details.

In the heavy winds, the flower petals came down like a drizzle. Like little boats, they floated down the river. From tens to hundreds, they multiplied at an incredible rate.

Like an ancient army, they laid a siege to his bridge.

Taken in by the spectacle, Charles remained rooted.

Even then, the only place his eyes wandered to was her covered visage. Everything else seemed to pale in front of such an overwhelming aesthetic.

He studied her once again. She was in her theatrical attire, with no new features of note. By her feet was the familiar wooden umbrella.

For some reason, his glance was drawn to it.

A single question fell out of his mouth.

"Why won’t the winds steal it away?"