Hell's Actor-Chapter 236: The Photographer
Stunned, Charles stood there with a vacant expression.
The radio buzzed and shook the air.
With a stereo in her hand
And a knife in mine, she'll be
Mine, mine, mine!
Whose will she be?
The background vocalists chimed in.
Yours! Yours, yours, yours!
With dull steps, The Photographer made his way towards the machine that was inexpensive to his craft.
It was like him.
Obsolete.
Mine, mine, mine!
"No, no, no."
His whimpers sounded like the mourning of a dog.
His head spun around, his gaze shook before it wandered.
Yours, yours, yours!
"No, no, no."
His legs faltered, shaking under the weight of his own skinny self. Vertigo kicked in, and dry retching began.
His world spun around, and so he spun around.
Round and round.
Mine, mine, mine!
Again, and again.
He clutched his head and stretched his back, groaning at the ceiling.
His eyes were closed, which meant he couldn't see the brilliance of the merry-go-round across the lake. Unlike before, it was lit in a myriad colors.
As he moaned and squirmed, the fountains in the center of the lake came to life. They drew arcs and circles in the air. The show of lights on water had begun. Purple and pink shone and shimmered, but blue remained the prominent color.
Charles's wandering eyes rested on the items in his hands. The umbrella seemed to speak to him. He could almost hear it. It was calling for his attention.
It was an ornate parasol—small with delicate openwork and only useful as a symbol of status for noble women.
As if a man possessed, he opened it. The camera panned down.
In the purple light, a shadow danced. It struggled against its confines—its structure, its outline.
It did not want to be contained. It desired something beyond its reach, and it squirmed to obtain it.
Its shaking and shivering turned into twirls. It clawed at its flesh, tearing at its attire.
With each flash and each flicker, it welcomed changes.
It let its hair down, removed its suspenders, and undid its buttons. At its feet lay a trampled dress, and the umbrella barely provided shade for its head.
Charles's camera occupied the frame.
It was set up on a tripod, with its owner posing at the edge of the lake.
His face could not be seen, and even his figure was blurry, yet it remained a difficult question to answer whether one should wish to see what expression flickered behind the obscured view.
The timer on the camera went down in a hurried beeping, at the end of which freshly-printed pictures spilled onto the ground where the frenzied shadow danced.
The story was told entirely through these cropped pieces of hard paper.
Even though his expression couldn't be seen, Charles clumsily posed in an attempt to imitate The Lady. He tried to move like her, emote through his body like her, create hallucinations like her.
But it was all for nought.
His weight was incorrect. His shape was incorrect. His size was incorrect. He was skinny but looked skinnier.
His hands had bulging veins, yet his limbs weren't typically manly, and they certainly weren't womanly.
His hair was rough. His clothing, although suited for formal occasions, lent an air of mediocrity to him.
He lacked The Lady's charms, grace, and arrogance. All in all, he wasn't one bit attractive.
He couldn't even be an imitation of her. The pictures were anything but beautiful.
They were ugly.
He was ugly.
They were imperfect.
He was imperfect.
Imperfection.
'Imperfection.'
That word repeated itself in his head.
Mine, mine, mine!
'Imperfection.'
In his fury, unsurpassed only by his disgust, he grabbed and tore the pictures, scattering them in the air.
Never had he shown emotions so sharply in the film.
The shower of torn pieces came down like a moonlit snowfall. They flitted in the air and brushed against him.
A piece got stuck in his collar. Another slipped into his shirt. One found its way into his pocket.
Frantically, Charles dug through his clothing. He removed one, only to find another.
Smaller pieces were caught in his hair; one got stuck in his eyelashes.
It irritated him immensely.
Clumsily, he snatched the falling papers and shoved them in his throat. He didn't chew. Unable to swallow, he choked.
He hurried to the lake and took gulps only to spill it all out like a clogged toilet.
The water tasted like chemicals, and nothing was going his way.
His eyes watered because of the pain in his chest, and saliva dribbled down his chin.
He tried to get up, but slipped and fell, scraping himself in more places than one. Tired, he defeatedly chose to lie down.
His breaths were labored, and weariness was reflected in his gaze.
Those watery eyes couldn't help but stare at the play of water and lights. Distant cheers didn't reach his ears.
Only the radio continued.
Mine, mine, mine!
The collection of clumsy actions, compared to some other grand performances, was neither significant nor genius.
Yet, to the stunned gentlemen and gasping ladies, it bore significance. The theatre was bedazzled.
It was a scene full of charm and character.
It was awkward and clumsy. It was brilliant and technical.
Portraying so much emotion through the otherwise inexpressive Charles had elevated the perception of his actor.
'Masterfully done,' Director Thomas Corsini thought.
It brought out Charles's exhaustion colorfully.
Emmanuel Echeverri felt envious.
He was used to the usual romance scenes, action scenes, and everything in between. But awkward bits like this were rare to come by.
He thought such occasions truly brought out the actor's ability to shape a scene. After all, no good director would direct every micro action in a chaotic scene like this.
'Who is this guy?' Emmanuel wondered while staring intently at the expressive close-up of Charles.
Even the ones who had doubts about the unknown actor taking the main role in such an important film couldn't criticize him. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶
In that moment, they realized that it wasn't just The Lady who provided depth to the film.
Even The Photographer was rocking it.
