8 - A Pictures Worth A Thousand Words
Cordelia
I backed the photo up last night. And when I say, ‘backed up’, I actually mean I sent it to No Filtre.
I have no idea what possessed me to do it.
Maybe it was hearing that harrowing news reporter; echoing through the walls of Mama's art room, that brought the jarring reality to fruition. Sure-fire proof the events that unfolded that evening hadn’t been a figment of my imagination or some sort of bizarre lucid dream.
Or perhaps it was the fear of losing the image entirely, losing the ability to stare into his stormy eyes forever.
That piercing gaze, that never allows for a moment’s reprieve.
So blue, breathing life in vivid colour.
A broken, tormented soul steeped in corruption.
And even through the bloodshed and strangled screams entwined with the darkness that night, I didn’t want to look away.
I wanted to be wrapped inside the never-ending vortex of his turmoil.
Did that make me unhinged, too?
Renee’s response is the first to pop up.
Renee: What. The. Fuck?
Phillippe’s follows, cut off mid-sentence.
Phillippe: Is that guy getting—
Lucien: No! My eyes!!
Lucien will be wishing he had never checked his phone right about now. In my defence, the name of the group does translate to no filter.
Theo sends an ellipsis.
Chloe: I mean he is sexy though, non?
Chloe’s comment makes me snort, because she’s not wrong. Inappropriate? Definitely. But she’s always had a warped attraction to morally grey characters. Her bookshelf back home would give the Library of Congress a run for its money.
Me: I needed somewhere safe to store it
Renee: Are we getting any more context than that?
Me: Not yet
The group fades to silence
I spent a significant amount of time last night scrolling through social media.
The fucker did follow me on IG, and he bombarded my account with a barrage of BikerboyCox liked your photo.
Seriously? I must have counted well over fifty notifications this morning.
He’d even left comments on a few, including a close-up of me blowing a kiss into the camera.
Though I love nothing more than taking photographs, I hate being the subject of the lens, so it’s rare for me to like any of them.
This particular one was taken on a night out on the town.
Chloe applied my makeup with her unrivalled artistry, and Renee made sure my hair stayed in place, with enough hairspray to take down the entire club should I step within ten feet of an open flame.
After dancing in our heels until the early hours, my hair was a wild mess, my face slick with sweat, and that’s when Theo snapped the photo.
The comment below reads.
BikerboyCox: Why, hello there, beautiful *fire emoji*
Chloe replied to him not a minute later, judging by the timestamp. I should imagine she's stalking him and his comrades by now.
CocoClo: Keep your hands off, she’s mine! *Knife emoji*
BikerboyCox: Is that so? Careful—sounds like a challenge and I do so love those*devil emoji*
CocoClo: Bring it, pretty boy!
BikerboyCox: Aw, you think I'm pretty?
The new name catches me off guard.
The_Italian_Stallion: Eurgh. Don’t stroke his ego; his oversized head will explode.
Ezio?
The handle is far too much of a coincidence. When I tap the screen, I'm directed to Ezio Moretti’s account. His profile picture shows him sitting on the bonnet of a fire-red Ferrari with a beautiful sunset as the backdrop.
I scroll down past several of his most recent posts. One with his arm slung around a guy about his age. Their features too similar to be a coincidence. It's captioned:
Bros before hoe’s
There's another of him holding a whopping gold trophy between both hands, mouth open in mid-celebration.
Winnerr!
I continue my aimless scrolling, not really paying attention anymore.
But then my thumb freezes and my eyes round.
Triple threat
All three of them, topless, arms crossed over their chests, staring directly into the lens.
I’m surprised the sheer number of likes hasn’t crashed the server.
They're all built like Adonis’s, but my gaze shamelessly sweeps to Logan and his bare chest. Taking in every muscle, every ripple of definition down to the V leading beyond his cargo shorts.
I have to fan myself because the sudden heat surging through my core is stifling.
It doesn't surprise me that the post has got nearly a million likes.
Closing my eyes, my fingers shake as they hover over his name. Convincing myself I slipped and didn't in fact press the link, I'm whisked over to his account page.
Disappointment.
It's set to private. Yet he has thousands upon thousands of followers. His profile picture is visible: a full-screen image of his jet-black helmet with the visor flipped up. Showcasing those freakishly blue eyes.
With a deep breath, my thumb guides me to the follow button. The only way I'll get to view his content, it seems.
Do I even want to view it?
Pushing the little voice in my head aside, I scroll. Plenty of videos of him and his Harley, photos of him flexing his muscles for the camera, close-ups of hands gripping dumbbells, ropes.
I mean, who needs porn anyway?
I stumble upon an unusual shot, taken from behind, and I think I’ve fallen in love. Captivated. Mainly because his arse is downright drool worthy in those gym shorts. But as my gaze slithers up his back to the intricate black ink spanning the width of his broad shoulder blades, I gasp.
Angel wings. With the caption:
I’d take a bullet every day if I could only have another with you.
The comments are mostly overflowing with heart emojis. But Ezio and TheMafiaMan have both written messages of support.
I wonder what that's about.
A ping tears me from my thoughts. I glare at the notification; two words mocking me.
Unknown: Good. Girl.
Is that in response to me following him? Eurgh.
The school day starts off as standard as I head to my first photography lecture, with a grin glued to my face. I’ve always had a love for everything creative; I was always going to, with a mother like mine. It’s the one personality trait I’m thankful she passed onto me.
Papa brought me my very first SLR camera when I was ten years old. He would take me on extravagant trips all over the country to explore. To help sharpen my skills and broaden my mind.
The French Alps offered the most majestic mountain views, breath-taking landscapes, and a plethora of unforgettable opportunities to capture nature.
We would often sit for hours taking it all in, tripods at the ready, waiting eagerly for the foxes and badgers to come out to play at dawn, or for the eagles to swoop low through the skies at dusk.
We’ve visited luxurious chateaux and castles in the Loire Valley, nestled amongst vast and endless fields of colourful flora and fauna. And dreamy little seaside towns along the sandy coasts of the French Riviera.
You could say I’m well-travelled.
So, it comes as no big surprise that the first lecture is drab and relatively uninspiring.
I guess everyone must start somewhere, but I learnt about the exposure triangle almost decades ago.
My teacher, a slim brunette in her mid-thirties seems very enthusiastic about her subject, which is refreshing.
The next lecture is English Language, and as I step through the door, something feels off.
The atmosphere is fragile, coiling around me in a thick smokescreen of hidden secrets and agendas.
Students talk amongst themselves, their hushed voices like static, barely noticeable, yet unmistakably directed at me.
Amidst the silence, something lands on my desk, drawing my eyes away from the textbook under my nose.
A piece of white paper, folded one too many times into an unnervingly perfect square.
I pick it up, rolling it in my palm. As I begin unfolding the paper, I notice an imperfection - a jagged edge along the short side, clearly torn from another student's workbook.
The paper feels thin between the pads of my fingers, and as I continue to work my way through the folds, a heavy sense of foreboding staggers me.
I still my breath, uncurling the last crease.
It was all a lie.
My eyes fixate on those five words. Carefully written, in near-black ink, each letter ridiculing me more than the last. My chest tightens like a constricting serpent, coiling its prey, depriving it of air., because I know deep down what this means. I just don’t want to believe it.
I drop the note, following as it flutters to its new home on the hardwood floor. Then I glance around me. Nothing seems out of place. No one is watching me, waiting for me to fall apart.
When the teacher announces the end of class, I stand, grab my books, and with near robotic urgency flee the room.
I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what I walk out to.
My face.
Pinned to every locker in the corridor, every notice board, and every door. The crushing weight of students, their scrutinising gazes dissecting me, making me feel like nothing more than a frog on a chopping board.
I step up to one of the lockers, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
The night I slept with a murderer.
The image depicts me lying on top of Logan, cheek squished against his chest, hair fanned out over one shoulder.
The soft smile on my lips showing how content and at peace I felt in the moment.
Logan’s arm stretches out over my sleeping form, obviously holding his camera steady to take the selfie.
The smug smirk plastered across his face tells me everything I need to know long before my eyes land on the victory ‘V’ he’s making with his fingers.
My lip’s part, dry and shaky. Too stunned to speak. At the very bottom of the printout are three chilling words:
Truth or Dare?
And the word dare has been circled several times with a red marker pen.
My insides are a mangled mess. Cruel voices of mockery assault me from all angles, laughing and pointing like I’m a monkey in the zoo.
Tears well behind my eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to let them fall.
My trembling fingers curl around the paper, pulling it free from the limp strip of cello tape tacking it to the cold metal.
Eyes firmly transfixed on Logan’s cruel expression, I press my palm to the locker for support, in fear if I don’t my knees may crumple beneath me.
Either that, or I’ll die from public humiliation.
"What the —"
Logan’s deep tenor severs through the whispers and rumours already emerging, silenced only when our eyes meet across the length of the hall.
For a second I hold his gaze, desperately searching for answers that might explain this fucked-up situation.
But I know I’ll find nothing. Because he’s exactly like everyone else.
I turn and run.
“Cordelia! Wait!”
His yelling is loud over the sea of students, but I won't stop. Not until I get away from him and the judgmental faces of those surrounding us. I burst out into the open air, and despite the miserable British weather; finally, I’m able to breathe.
A hand catches my shoulder, and I whirl around, baring my teeth like a rabid dog.
“Cordelia—”
“What the fuck, Logan?” I shriek in his face, arms flailing as if I’m trying to come up for air with no surface in sight. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t take my virginity for a fucking dare!”
“How was I supposed to know it was your first time?” He demands, jaw clenched, taken aback by my outburst.
“You didn’t ask,” I spit back, slamming my palms against his sodden shirt. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t flinch. “But let’s face it, why would you care? I was just another drunken conquest for you, right? Another number to add to your hit list!”
He seizes my wrists to stop me from pummelling him with angry fists, and I hate the way my body still reacts to his touch. His expression shifts, a flicker of guilt behind his eyes. “It wasn’t like that…not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” I hiss through clenched teeth. “What does that even mean? “
I tear my hands free. He tries to close the gap between us, but I recoil from him like he’s toxic.
Because he is. When he stands there in silence, staring at me like an injured puppy left out in the rain, I spin around on my heel and stalk over to my car, arms welded to my sides.
I fling the door open and jump in, but he manages to wedge his hand in the edge of the door.
“It started off as a dare, Cor,” he says, guilty eyes sweeping the floor before returning to me. "But by the end, none of that mattered. I just —,"
I cut him off with a single look. “What? Wanted to get your dick wet?” I growl, voice growing more hostile by the second. “Thought you’d freeze-frame the moment in photo form and send it to your friends?”
"Cor, I-,"
“Stop calling me Cor,” I snap, lips twisting into a snarl as I ram the keys into the ignition. “You don’t get to call me that. In fact, you don’t get to call me at all. We’re fucking done.”
I slam the door shut in his face and floor it.
And you’ll never guess what’s waiting for me around the corner, standing in the middle of the road, its beady eyes reflecting off the glow of my headlights.
A fucking magpie.