Hell's Actor-Chapter 237: Arranged No Differently

"Genevieve Symphony has accepted our request."

It was one of the three greatest orchestra troupes in the world.

"The recording will begin next week." The good director took a sip of his tea. It tasted sweet and citrusy. "I was wondering if I should be more proactive in the process."

The teacup across from his own swirled; on the ripples was reflected the pale face of a tired actor.

Averie sighed. "They don’t like it."

It should have been obvious, in his opinion.

"Musicians and the creative types, they don’t like outside interference."

’Even tattoo artists have big egos these days.’

"I would suggest leaving them to their own devices. It will also keep your anxiety at bay."

That recollection faded back into the recesses of the good director’s mind.

The orchestral music, introduced not too commonly, was indeed good. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but if he had gotten what he had hoped for, he knew he would be disappointed.

That was the curse of expectation.

His gaze turned back to the actor on screen.

The music on the radio very skillfully transitioned to an orchestral tune.

Charles closed his eyes.

The camera zoomed out.

He was on his bed.

Tossing and turning, he’d gone to sleep. Yet, once again, he found himself dreaming of her on the same bridge.

She was there.

The Lady was there—just past the gazebo, lit by the moon and the paper lanterns.

The grand orchestral music accompanied his every step.

The percussion represented the heat of the lanterns. The strings represented the cold of the night. And the wind instruments represented the two figures—The Photographer and The Lady.

Two feet away from her, he noticed the oddity.

Her veil was slipping away.

Through curiosity and apprehension, he held his breath. And as it fell, he stared at the face turning towards him.

The music reached its crescendo.

Marianne’s face stared back.

Charles didn’t react.

He couldn’t react, nor could he comprehend what was what or what was happening.

The face of his fiancée didn’t hold a single emotion.

She extended her hand to him, asking him to hold it, to lead her into a dance.

Charles reached for it, grabbed it, and took a step closer. He didn’t know why he was doing it, why he was allowing himself to further sink into this delusion. But he entertained it nonetheless.

The dance wasn’t anything complex or eye-catching. It was as simple as could be.

A step to the left, two to the right. Round and round, around the woman, the man continued.

Her high heels tapped against the bridge, and her white gown flowed into the wind.

Charles felt a sense of incongruity. Shouldn’t The Lady’s dress be the one he saw that day in the theater?

And wasn’t the umbrella lying nearby supposed to be red and wooden? Why was it cream-colored? Why was it the one he stole?

His eyes turned to his fiancée once again. She wasn’t there. What stared back was his own pale face, lifeless and dispassionate.

The gown had turned into his own dusty attire.

A thought crossed The Photographer’s mind.

If the one staring back was Charles, then who was the one staring at him? Who was he himself?

Trembling fingers grazed his skin. His hands grasped his cheeks and explored every inch of his face.

The last thing he remembered was his own face staring back as he woke up drenched in sweat.

He wheezed and gasped before stumbling into the bathroom. The flickering lights spurred his anxious heart.

The one who stared back from the mirror was himself. He was indeed Charles.

Such a relief it was.

The more he stared into the mirror, the more he was put off. The flickering lights did him no favor.

In its glow, his shadow looked to be manically shuddering.

The more he stared, the wilder it grew.

The bright flashing light morphed into a neon one. Without disturbing his grim countenance, Charles had stepped out onto the street.

Someone needed to fix that flickering signboard, but that thought didn’t occur to Charles—even though his actor did wonder if the film wasn’t a bait to invite lawsuits from epileptic patients.

With the familiar satchel hanging from his shoulder and the stolen umbrella in hand, Charles spent his time desperately searching for The Lady.

He looked through the lower floors and shady corners where the worst of The City lurked.

He went to popular places, cultural sites, and art museums.

He even went to Château du peril, but was informed that there was no such actress there and that Baptiste was out.

The concert area was also without a sign of her; another band was playing.

After hours of fruitless effort, he found himself in the alley where he saw the butterfly when he came to The City.

The wall of graffiti with Ethereal in the center greeted him proudly.

Like an art aficionado, he spent a good one minute observing every letter of the word. He stared so long that the colors seemed to begin bleeding into each other.

It was fascinating, but he did not approach it.

His gaze fell to the figure covered in rags and lying on its back. He had a funny feeling; heeding it, he approached the person.

It was a woman lying incredibly still.

He looked around; no one was around.

With a knee bent like the knights of old, he examined her pulse.

It wasn’t there. The body was cold. She was dead.

It wasn’t shocking, disappointing, or even sad.

He looked around again before sitting down and resting his head between his tired knees. Although his aching feet earned him respite, his mind wandered.

His hand naturally crawled towards the satchel by his side. The fabric in his palm felt nice.

What little he had seen of The Lady kept playing in the theater of his mind.

The camera cut to the neon-covered ceiling before cutting back to the graffiti-covered wall.

Nailed to it was the corpse of the woman, arranged no differently from The Lady of Charles’s memories.

Her right hand was sewn so that it could hold the umbrella.

With a lifeless expression, The Photographer captured her from all angles.