Noir

Part Three

He left the rotting cell, puzzled by Julian's quick farewell, but when he did, the man was nowhere in sight. He was too intoxicated to care for how he might have disappeared, moving down the corridor as quickly as he could. He passed through the curtain, glancing around once more at the lascivious performances within the room before passing through the second. The smell of intercourse was thick, but he had endured the scent on many occasion.

When he passed through the lounge he wondered if the lifeless bodies were truly that. But he didn't care to stop and check. Though, part of him wanted to partake in whatever they were indulging. He swept that thought away, wanting to leave this place. He much preferred the comfort of his own home.

The walk down the foremost corridor felt all too slow, the exit seeming further away than he remembered, now that he didn't have someone beside him as a distraction. The curtain billowed and he had the faint feeling that it was his mind playing tricks on him.

Suddenly he was outside, strolling down the alley. He must have blacked out. He idly wondered if something had been slipped into his drink, despite Julian claiming it was simply strong absinthe. The thought that it could have been the man himself causing such distress entered his mind as well.

Julian Monroe. The striking image of sophistication. The embodiment of discord. Perhaps it had been fate. The devil himself providing a life of greater sin.

A certain dread creeped on that he had wasted his chance. Nothing could save him from the disappointment he had procured within his new acquaintance. He prayed he could redeem himself.

The journey home was refreshing, renewing him, staving off the lasting remnants of the hallucinogen. But as he neared his residence, he grew paranoid that his shadow was more so a specter, his own darkness following him.

Within the confines of his small home, he exchanged his long coat for a black vest. He wasn't planning on sleep. Sleep deprivation was a reprieve from night terrors, it was less time wasted. It made the world more vivid, colorful. Red became crimson, black became glistening terrarium.

He moved to his desk, falling into his chair. He felt awake, gratefully alive. Inspiration struck at the most ungodly hours.

With a candle burning beside him, he picked up his pen, his calligraphy well practiced:

     You ruin my flesh, cruel insect, digging into my skin, embedding yourself within my core, sending my mind spiraling into oblivious neglect. Against these odds, my failing shall be the end of us both.

It was an instant favorite, a reminder of this night. An ode to the man who had broken him. He felt inferior to Julian's wickedness. If the man had no trouble hiding his murderous ways, then what else was there to hide? Julian was shameless, unafraid, confident. He wished to be him. 

The night drew on slowly. He abused his substance of choice. He scribbled out carnal nonsense. He thought of him. He was forever embedded in his memory, whether he decided to see him again or not.

Daylight came not soon enough, he needed stimulation, and he knew just where he'd find it. The Obsidian club, where he was famed for his ability to make women scream, to release men from their mental bondage through physical means.

Yes, he needed the invigoration.

He took a quick shot of vodka. Then two. Then a third. Courage to be seen in the sun.

His worst habit was nicotine, unable to do anything without a cigarette in hand. A crutch to save him from being idle.

He entered Obsidian, headed straight for the bar. The darkness was sultry, the music playing, seductive. But it was dull, nothing like the prosperous Menagerie. But it did the job. It got him off.