Tag Fear

Parallel

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Angelo had been visiting his lover in Long Island for seventeen years. Regular as clockwork, reliable as always, he would take a week’s holiday in March, June, September and December and make the long trip to spend some quality time with Dennis, a British ex-pat who loved all and everything about the good old US of A. Secretly, Angelo would have loved to escape from the clutches of an America that had become an alien concept to him over the years. If he could have achieved his dream, emigrating to the Highlands of Scotland and Dennis’s native home, he would have been one hundred percent happy.

Oh to be young again, to have the conviction that Dennis would be content with him no matter what, that he would move mountains for him. But Dennis had become old and set in his ways, refusing even to leave the small coastal town where he had set up home, paying a fortune for Angelo’s first class flights from San Francisco, just so that he could stay put. Sometimes, just sometimes, it would have been wonderful to open the front door of his second floor walk-up and see his favourite man in the world standing there with his battered Louis Vuitton luggage, with his arms outstretched waiting for a welcoming hug. But it had never happened yet, and never would.

Dennis felt the age-gap between him and his darling Angelo more keenly than he would care to admit, even to himself. Thirteen years was almost indecent, he believed, and even though a smattering of grey had begun to appear at his young lover’s formally jet black temples, he still ruefully believed himself to look like Angelo’s father, rather than his lover. He had no idea what Angelo saw in him. His young paramour was successful in his own right, was independent, didn’t need him, he was sure. There was no way he was going to confess to a fear of heights that had crippled him since childhood, since he had seen his father fall to his early death whilst clearing out the guttering after a particularly violent autumn storm. Angelo’s walk-up with its vast windows and balconies made him feel queasy even just looking at the photos, and after all, there was no way he would even step foot on a plane. Angelo, he just knew, would laugh at him and find a younger, more confident man to love if he ever found out.

Dennis sighed, his finger hovering over the screen of his iPad. Angelo was due to visit soon, he needed to make a decision. The image told him all that he needed to know. It would be perfect for the dressing room, just the right size, the perfect style to match the Shaker-built house that was his pride and enjoy. And besides, it would block out the view across the valley from his side of the bed. He could pretend he was on the ground floor, and that he was safe. He hit the ‘Enter’ button and watched as the transaction completed.

One day, maybe one day, he would explain. But not yet. Definitely not yet. He wanted Angelo to be one hundred percent happy with him for just a little bit longer.

SoCS March 26/16 – real

freyathewriter 4 Comments

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‘The truth of the matter is that there is no one reality. We all see and remember events through the filter of our own perception’.

Callie remembered when she heard that bald statement as a rookie, a wet behind the ears, oh so very green new recruit at the Security Force training college. It was far too many years ago now to even want to remember how young she had been then, but it still resonated every time she sat down in the windowless room to scrutinise the latest batch of security footage.

Once upon a time, the films had been grainy and only rendered in colour if you were lucky, with no sound at all. Many places were blind spots, with no security cameras in evidence for vast swathes of the country. Now, highly detailed sound and vision was the order of the day, every street, every field, every mountain recorded for posterity. Yes, actual posterity. There was no escape. The media lauded the fact that this sceptred isle was by far the most surveilled place on earth, that no crime would ever go unpunished again, for even the sacred space of home was on the record. All citizens were safe. Apparently.

Callie sighed, rubbing her gritty eyes in frustration. This wasn’t what she had trained for. This didn’t fit her admittedly naive idea of truth and justice.

Yes, the cameras filmed everyone, everywhere. But perception, reason, justification, reality meant nothing to these digital, soulless entities. They couldn’t understand or interpret human emotion. A camera was judge, jury and executioner these days. So much for innocent until proven guilty.

She took a deep breath, and turned off the camera scrutinising her as she worked. She had 3 minutes to destroy the footage she was analysing. Enough was enough. Their reality was no longer hers.

—–

Here’s this week’s entry into Stream of Consciousness Saturday! Those who know my writing, will understand that often as not, I like to head to the dark side. I think that this qualifies!

Please head on over to Linda’s blog to read all the delicious creativity that can be found there.

Thank you once again to Linda for creating this vibrant community!

Smoke & Mirrors

freyathewriter 2 Comments

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I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people. Oh, I’m not proud of it as such, but I admit, it was very, very effective.

You see, I’m an articulate woman. Well-educated, well-informed, well-adjusted. At least, that’s what people see, what I allow people to see. If they get too close to finding out what lies beneath that carefully crafted veneer – because it is, after all, paper-thin – then, I turn it on. The system. Works every, damn time.

Jonathan. He was the last one. he was skating on thin ice – that’s all I can say. All I will say, to the likes of you at least. He got too close. I’ve standards to keep up, an image to protect, my whole bloody life to keep on track. You know, a mortgage, a car, an exotic holiday I bloody well deserve. Do you know how difficult it is to keep this up, day in, day out?

The last straw was the lemon sherbert that melted all over the counter. Jonathan swore, jumped up as if he’d had a bucket of water thrown all over him and grabbed me, to make me look at the sweet, sticky mess dripping all over his new briefcase..

“Damn it all, Sophie! Do you know how much that cost? Look, look at the label. Just tell me you don’t know how expensive those things are. Bloody limited edition as well!”

He shoved a receipt in my face. “Read. It.” Menacing wasn’t the word. The paper was rich, creamy, watermarked. It literally smelled of money, that I could tell. But decipher the hieroglyphics handwritten in elegant copperplate? No. Not my bag.

I’d rather die than admit I can’t read, and watch my world crumble at my feet.

So, I cried. Like a baby. Got him to feel sorry for me, hold me close, comfort me, apologise..

And then I killed him.

I’d rather he die, than let the world know my guilty little secret.