Crumbling Visage

Beauty

There is often a quest for beauty. Always the need to find perfection in every stroke of the pen, every leaf that falls, every wisp of sunlight flitting through the tree, every bit of the peculiar cloud that surmounts far above the summer sky.

Samara had always found it a bit ridiculous and she ever yearned for the little imperfections that ever so mindfully brought a strange sense of fulfillment. She was a journalist and she wrote on a variety of topics-particularly creative writing.

She'd moved into the city three years ago and it was with surprising ease that she found herself melding into the city lifestyle and its heart and soul as one. Nor was her life dull, she just tried to live as simply as she could.

A pretty, young woman of twenty-seven, she was often complimented. Perhaps on her amber eyes that shone like honey in the sunlight or her brown curls that twirled and rested across her shoulders like a flowing curtain; or on the olive skin tone that brought out her eyes marvelously. She just smiled a soft smile, never too glad, never too cold.

Samara, for one, had never been attracted to any of these compliment givers. In fact, she had never been attracted to anyone at all. She had found it to be a bit strange when girls her age fantasized and gossiped and it did not incite any sort of curiosity in her; for a brief while, she had considered being attracted to girls but it did not hold much allure either.

As she hailed a ride to office, she found that the cab was already taken. She gave an apologetic shrug to the man who just smiled and offered to share. She quickly agreed.

"A journalist then?" the man led a casual conversation.

"How'd you...?"

"Your bag; it has the logo of your establishment- quite a popular one- I do read it myself."

Samara gave a small smile and stuck out her hand, "Samara."

The man shook hands, "Dave. I've read quite a lot of your articles; they're very fascinating."

Samara laughed lightly, "I am afraid you only say that because I am in your presence?"

Dave quirked a dry smile and shook his head in negation, "I really do. I've always admired your ease with words and admittedly, I don't always agree with everything you write, but one can't help but be bizarrely manipulated..."

At this Samara cheekily spoke up, "Manipulation? Indeed, I have manipulated many young men and women, not unlike yourself- they're all either dead or missing..."

Dave laughed, clearly amused, "A quick wit that one is better off not messing with." He held up his hand in surrender.

The cab came to a stop and Samara got out, paying her fare, before waving a quick goodbye to the stranger in the cab.

She watched the cab round a corner in the lane and gradually diminish out of sight; she stepped into the building ready for a long day of work.

**********

Samara loved evenings. When she got off work, she usually went to the ice-cream seller across the street where she relished the sweet bliss, before taking a bus back home.

After reaching home and getting into comfortable pajamas, she usually read for a bit before getting herself some coffee; when she'd missed the news earlier in the day, she would catch up on that. Then she would watch a movie if she was feeling up for it or play some music. Dinner would be with a friend at the local diner or at home, on quiet days.

Of course, there were bad days when she wouldn't bother with any of it and collapse under a mass of blankets, waiting for sleep to overcome her weary eyes.

Presently, as she stepped into the elevator leading up to her flat, she was in extremely high spirits- she had had a great day at work.

She stepped out of the elevator, a genuine smile alighting her features. As she turned to the corridor leading up to her flat, she found a familiar figure- their back visible as they fiddled with something. She froze in her tracks, panic coursing through her veins. Before, she had even initiated the thought of running away, the man in question turned around and walked up to her with a smile.

"Hello Samara." The stranger from the cab had an unnerving smile in place.

"What do you think you're doing here! How'd you...how'd you get my address?" Samara was taking small steps back, her chest heaving.

"Oh, don't be afraid." Dave- the name struck her- replied, "I've got it from your office records; I am not some crazy stalker!" He laughed at the notion.

Samara twitched with unease, "They don't divulge such information. Besides, there is no purpose for your visit; you better leave before I call..."

"Samara." The man paused, "I am the owner of the establishment you work at and I've come to discuss certain future prospects because I have received great recommendations regarding your opportunities in other projects for the near future."

Samara snorted, backing down, "Yes, I completely believe you. I am related to the divine forces and have come to inform you that if you don't leave, this very moment, legal forces will be involved or you will die an immensely painful death."

The man ruffled a hand through his hair and laughed shortly, "A feisty young woman alright. I'll visit you tomorrow, perhaps, at your office."

Samara's spirit had dampened and she felt her heart beat race. That man had not been the establishment's owner and she knew it.

He couldn't have been, for she had met the real owner; several times.

She peered out of her door to find the man gone but she still felt unease bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She decided to call up at the security of the apartment and enquire if the man was gone.

He wasn't.

Frantic tears rushed down her cheeks as she locked her door and called the police. She was much too afraid to go out and find the man- perhaps, just round the corner of her corridor- anticipating her arrival. She was quick to inform the watchman-who'd apologetically declared that he'd just arrived at his shift- of the strange man.

She lay huddled by the door, waiting.

There was a soft humming coming from the kitchen and a clatter of vessels, before it quieted down. Samara froze in horror for a second too long, before quickly unlocking the door.

"Oh, Samara." Dave beamed at her, "Tea?" he offered sweetly, holding out a cup of it.

"How...how..." Samara quickly pushed the door open and stepped out; she wasn't fast enough. The man had quickly sidestepped her at an alarming pace and was currently locking the door.

"Oh, come off it, you act like I am here to murder you." The man's tone was amused but his eyes were cold, "I am only here because you're so...beautiful. Ethereal really. I will not lay a finger on you- oh no. You're like a shrine, Samara. And your words? How sweet they are! Sometimes when I read them, I feel like I've been twisted inside and wrenched apart. Your indifference is also unearthly, you seem to neither love nor hate- just Samara. You can manipulate me, Samara, make me believe in things." The man paused, "Can you make me believe in happiness again? That is all I want..."

**********

"You're quite sure she mentioned no name?"

"Quite certain, sir."

"And there was no record of any such man entering the building..."

"None, sir."

"It was obviously a false call the woman made to have herself discovered. She does live alone and come to think of it, her body would rot for days before the neighbors would even suspect a thing."

"But the suicide note..."

"...is highly metaphorical."

A man in a black coat walked in stiffly and held out a business card to the officer, "Dave. I was supposed to meet Samara today about her future prospects; I am the owner of the establishment she used to work at, you see..."