Chapter Four
K i a n G r i m m
“I’ve got a shoot later.” I murmur to the boy across from me. Another boy my father brought to keep me entertained for the next few months, while he and mother are gone on a retreat.
His hand comes out, shaky and boney as he grabs another rook.
His gaze flickers from me to the chessboard and it gleams like a miniature battlefield.
The black and white squares reflecting the late sun that glints through the stained glass of my father’s terrace.
Ivy crawls around the brick with precision and gargoyles frame the area with a symbolism of darkness, cruelty.
I rest my chin on my hand as boredom seeps through me.
“The beauty of capturing something live is my specialty. Lights breaking through cathedral glass and reflecting on my subject’s face. Tragic beauty framed and frozen in time.” I say lazily.
His gaze stays on me, confused at my sudden interests. I can feel the fear dripping off him, twisting my gut with pride.
I grab a rook and shift it on the board—my attacks are lazy because I know how this will end. Me winning, him stuck with a sense of loss. His gaze shifts down to the board, most likely hesitant with his next move.
“Photography isn’t for memories, it’s dissection. Something so many people miss as they stand there with sparkling white smiles.” I continue with my tangent, the boy's throat working as he swallows.
“You know, photography is chess with light.” I shift my knight.
“You corner your subject until they’re left gasping and raw.
Exposing their flaws and lies, tipping the lens just right or the whole frame will collapse.
By the time I’m done the only thing they see is the version I’ve created.
Perfection, beauty.” I laugh to myself, remembering the pretty little swan I’d met today.
He shifts his knight forward, unknowingly falling into my trap.
Sweat coats his top lip as he chews nervously on the bottom one.
His crisp ivory shirt blows with the autumn air and I get the scent of expensive cologne every so often.
My lens captures him just as ugly as he is.
A boy with no sense of reality, living off his parents’ wages.
He isn’t rich like me, but not poor either—middle class with a few scholarships to attend Grimmwood Academy.
“Speaking of flaws, there's a new girl in town.” I turn my gaze back to the board.
His gaze lifts to me but I ignore him. His interest for the new girl causes a spike of anger to course through me. No one should be happy that a poor girl like her is here.
“What’s her name?” His voice is soft, girly in a way that ticks me off. The first thing he’s said all day and it’s about my little swan.
“Sylvia, a long haired, green eyed freak. I hate her already, not because she did me wrong. No. No one could ever do me wrong. She looks like she’s just crawled out of the worst juncture of her life; dust clings to her tattered clothes, spine so stiff it looks like it will break if I push her hard enough, and worst of all those round eyes reek of hope. ” I say as I close in on him.
He scrutinizes me as if I've grown two heads and I shrug. His eyes never meet mine though, too scared, staying on my chest or forehead as I talk. I shift in my seat, pulling my button up from my slacks. The air is cold but just talking about her is making me hot.
“She’s pathetic really. Hiding behind a book—paper, as if my lens won’t capture her flaws. I can imagine her framed in monochrome, every crack in her composure highlighted for me to fix.” I muse. “Do you know what happens to blemishes?”
“What?” His voice is shaky and barely above a whisper.
I move my rook, cutting down his queen without mercy. His eyes finally catch mine but only for a second—fear drips from them like tears. The sun catches each of his damned features and a sharp, cruel smile spreads across my lips.
“They get corrected or deleted.” I dust my hands on my pants as if it'll rid me of my success. “Check mate.”
“Good game.” He says as he shakily stands and walks across the terrace back inside.
I watch him go, not caring about his absence. He’s a lanky kid with stiff posture, probably a cross country runner. His legs and arms are thin and his torso is really long.
I spread out, soaking up the little sun that peeks through the heavy clouds. My mind stuck on my little swan with too many imperfections to count. One glimpse and I noticed the small crook of her nose, the four tan freckles that coated each cheek, and her bottom lip that’s much bigger than the top.
My watch chimes, a soft tune that washes the familiarity of my grandpa through me. I look down at it, 3:30pm, time for my photoshoot. The subjects being a couple in their late 40’s who've lived here all their lives.
Photography will always be something I cherish and study.
I stand up and tuck in my button up as I walk inside of my father’s home. Each antique I pass is another reminder that the home I live in is perfect, despite the people who live here.
It’s decorated in soft whites and tans, a color that means purity, something the Grimm family doesn’t have.
Marble flooring stretches from one room to another, the ceilings soar up with crystal chandeliers dangling from them, hand painted murals cover the patterned wallpaper and decorative moldings, and natural light pours in from each large bay window.
I stop in the foyer, grabbing my grey sweater vest that hangs from the coatrack and pull it on. The wind outside will only get colder with each passing hour. My camera dangles on the rack as well and I grab it, pulling it over my neck until it sits in front of my chest.
The drive through town isn’t bad, it’s something I know intimately. The narrow roads lack any other presence and the oak trees sway with the wind.
The church I’m meeting them at slowly comes into view.
Its cathedral arches pointing through the slight fog like swords, weathered but strong.
A Chevy is parked out front, indicating my clients are already inside waiting.
I pull up, turning my motorcycle off and walking up to the heavy black doors.
Each step crumbles the dried leaves below my boots.
Once inside, their resemblance speaks of how long they’ve been together, the symmetry only endurance breeds.
Their smiles are soft as I clasp the male's hand in mine.
“Kian Grimm, you must be Jessie and Todd Maholven?” I ask, my skin crawling as his grazes mine.
“Yes, thank you for taking the job. It’s a pleasure meeting such a young student with amazing photography skills.” My fake smile spreads at Todd's words.
I dislike hearing how young but talented I am.
Age shouldn’t be equated to skill, and it shouldn’t determine anyone's level of ability. I know tons of elderly people with nothing, not even a bed to sleep on because they didn’t take the time to learn something, to grow and adapt.
Talent isn’t given, it's earned and age is just a number that counts your death.
“Let’s get started.” I say as I lead them to the front of the church.
I position them directly behind the stained glass window. The age is evident on the window’s frame with its blackened and slightly molded appearance. Cracks litter throughout the glass, but it only improves the color that glows off their pale skin.
Their smiles are wide as I lift the camera.
My left eye squints and my right stares deep into their frame.
My lens would make their smiles mean more than what they were.
Photo after photo I reveal their flaws, pinning them to pictures.
Every shadow reveals the dark bags under the ladies eyes and each angle reveals the stress in his posture.
No matter how happy they look I can see the decay of the world eating away at them, rotting their core inside out.
That’s what the world does—tears you apart bit by bit, until you’re nothing but a shell of yourself. My gaze flickers to the glint of tattoos peaking from underneath the woman's black dress. Some type of rose right below her knee and crawling to the unknown place of her thighs.
My little swan has tattoos, ones that the naked eye can’t see I assume.
Sewn into her flesh like goddamn patchwork, each meaning something deeper than the last. Despite the tattoos that litter my body, none of them hold any sentimental value.
They don’t mean a damn thing besides what they are.
Tattoos peeked out of her clothes—names on her skin, dates, as if it'll bring back those people.
Her face buffers into my frame, cascaded in odd arrays of black and green. I blink trying to make her vanish. She’s ruining my frame, damaging it, but she stays put like the vixen she is.
She pretended like she didn’t stare at me in Alistair’s shop, but really she was curious. She lingered on my face, down to the tattoos she thought were similar to hers, to the bottom of my expensive shoes. She looked at me as if we had something in common.
I hate how she distracts me. I hate that my focus on my art has dwelt to a pitiful soul like hers.
My cold, clean precision for it has been wiped away like it was never there.
She’s not pretty, no, but her soulless eyes, the tragedy she wears like clothing, and the smell of death wafting off her—it unsettles me.
“Son, you alright?” Todd asks. My gaze drifts to his, lazily, as if I wasn’t just zoned out.
“Yeah, I just need to adjust my lens.” I say as I grip the barrel of my lens and twist.
I focus on making them beautiful, on capturing the truth of art. The form that splits them open in two as they get pictures back.
It’s not art without catching them before their masks lift, removing every facade they try to throw up. That’s my speciality. I see the fractured lines and their weakness, trapping them until they’re nothing but eternal pieces.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Even with the contrast of the cold wind, my mind races at all sorts of speeds making a warmth creep into my skin.
I shrug off my vest and place it on my bike as I lead them over to the cobblestone road. I position them directly in front of the tree. The branches loom into their shot, creating the perfect frame.
Their frames are delicate, no comparison to the large oak tree. It gives a suitable look of doom with an equal amount of drawn out perfection.
I finally finish and wrap up the shoot, climbing on my bike with one thought in mind. I heard around town that she lives in the haunted home on the hill. One little visit won’t hurt.
When I’m close I park my bike in the woods, if I pull too close she’ll hear the rumble of my exhaust or worse, her father might see me.
I skim the home at a distance, deciding which room would possibly be hers when a light flickers upstairs.
Bingo.
I can see her silhouette reflecting on the glass and make my way to the terrace.
I light a cigarette first, the flame flaring briefly like a dying star. The smoke scrapes my lungs as I inhale, familiar in a way that's comforting and I hold it between my lips as I climb.
The siding is damp, slick with age, and my hand comes away smelling of old paint. The things I do for obsessions.
I begin climbing, letting the splinters bite into my skin without a care. Halfway up, the wood underneath my left foot cracks before breaking underneath my weight. My foot plunges, my weight shifting to one side of my body. My hands tighten as I lift myself up and a curse escapes me.
“Fuck.” Who would’ve guessed being a peeping tom would be the death of me.
The cigarette in my mouth clouds around me and I finally roll myself onto the terrace. I can almost hear my father's voice—careless boys fall, careful ones don’t.
When will his voice disappear from my head?
I pluck the cigarette from my lips before inhaling the smoke. It eases away the thoughts of my father as I step closer to her window, crouching so she won’t see movement.
She walks to her closet, drifting in and out of the hearth's light. Her skin pale and her black hair taken out of its ponytail. Her green eyes glint with sorrow as she leans down to take off her boots.
My eyes narrow and I lift the camera with my free hand, cigarette glowing softly between my fingers. The lens captures her beautifully, the rawness in her eyes looking ruined and radiant all at once.
My jaw tightens at the way I depict her, she’s apprehended me in more ways than I like.
Her small hands grab at the silk fabric against her skin and it puddles to the floor. My breath heightens and I know I shouldn’t be doing this—despite what it makes me, I keep watching.
Her waist curves inward with a cruel elegance and my fingers itch for a feel of it. Her breasts bounce in the bralette as she partially turns to her desk, setting her bracelets and rings there.
My lens only sees her as it clicks, each photo much more revealing than the last. Her ribs flare as she struggles to unclasp her bralette and the cigarette between my lips curls into the night air, burning into ash.
It finally falls to the floor and my cock jerks alive, straining against my pants with agonizing pressure.
There's something devastating in their weight as they defy gravity and the areolas are a beautiful pink. I imagine them in my hands, overfilling my palms in puddles of softness and tender skin.
I know with one touch she’ll perk up, her cheeks darkened as I rub my rough hands across them—as my hot tongue drinks them in.
I situate myself, my cock straining uncomfortably.
She doesn’t remove her panties as she walks into another room, which I suspect is the restroom. Her legs; long, thin, fragile—looking breakable but I know better. She’d kick my ass with those same legs.
The cigarette burns down between my fingers, ash trembling and threatening to fall. I don’t feel the small fire burning me, I only see her.
Printed out they’d look lovely, breathtaking even.
My photos don’t capture her like a man wants a woman. They frame her with so much more; with truth, rawness, unforgiving exposure that makes my skin crawl and burn simultaneously.