Idée Fixe

01| rapture

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𝐑𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 (n.)
|rap-chuh|
- a feeling of intense 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞.
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TO THOROUGHLY EXPLAIN the recent, and the rather intentional choices amongst this town — now frosted over thawed snow — I stand with my wrists cuffed together, fairly unstable if I might add.

There was only a dozen guards awaiting a semblance of weakness from my daring slip. Some might say that I had been caught red handed, but had I? I was certain that my expression stated how little shits I had to give.

Then there was the main culprit, or rather, the issue. Cruz Serrano, a man whose wealth overlooked his offences regardless it acquiring a knife, or not. Cruz had always fulfilled a role amongst what had pleased him, and what had not, that being sex, and a successful business.

Money had turned out to become a filling amongst profane, and rather pitiful mistakes — ones that served a life span wasted. He was as much of a father, that in heed of the public eye, child molestation came to a down-low — so much so that I could have believed that he couldn't have existed without it.

Though, if not for his nightly escapades, Cruz wouldn't have had his life in shambles on the concrete floor. So to say that the repentance of being cuffed, and thrown in the backseat of a cop car, had nothing to do with the pleasure crowding me.

I could vision his face from behind a window — doused in garnet, though dazed — and it seemed to have been smiling at me.

I smiled back.

Then reality had settled deep within my bones, nails crusted with garnet, and a thrill set upon my shoulders. I was going to prison. I was caught — so why had the thought not terrified me?

It was so to say that I value what I do, and how I do it. Being a filthy hedonist amongst a world in which innocent are not so innocent, hadn't made my way of entertaining any easier.

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It was hard to believe that the death of an unworthy man — one with the right of a carved heart, had landed me amongst an interrogation. What was there left to tell, if it did not express from the garnet on my hands? It spoke more than one of words could, truly.

But as I sit there with my hands cuffed to the table, i had realised just how little of the situation concerned me.

That being said, a man comes in mid enquiry with what looks like a pay-check, grin so wide that it had mine faltering. I had assumed that the money was none of my concerns until it came the time that the man crossed the room, and judging by the aura alone, I was being let go, seeing that the signature on that check was of nobody other than my fucking father.

Oh, what money could really do.

Prior to that thought alone, the cuffs binding my wrists fall off, leaving them to sit beside a pay-check that has no doubt brought along more problems than one of a dead man, and in conclusion to that, prison had been swept beneath my feet, with money bound to take you so far, for I was an example.

My father was a perfectionist, that is, with a successful business, and a pretty wife — that being my snob of a mother, but what was there to complain about? Born from a family like them as an example has stated such in the first place.

My way of 'existing' has become nothing more than a thorn in their sides, and a somewhat let down to a business where they walk alongside business men with good impression, and professionalism. Though, did that dent how much I really cared? I'd say not if i had at least a decent amount of human in my blood.

Nonetheless, the money hadn't come to me as much of a surprise, hence my lack of concern. All I really gave a fuck about was the fact that a man was dead, and not the money, nor the life sentence — which had no longer become my concern, either.

Then I get yanked out of the chair asking if their hostility was really necessary, only to earn a sloppy grin from said officer, as if he didn't have the grasp of a man capable of carving his heart out, too. "You're one lucky motherfucker, eh? You should bet you are." He rasped out. "Oh, where that money could get me..."

And then I was walking out of prison a free fucking man, despite the evidence stained along my palms, and a dirty grin on my lips. Though, I had known that a fuck-load of complaints in regards to what had gone through my head, was to be awaited.

For all I knew, there was far worse coming seeing as my father rarely cared. Though, that did not mean that he figured as to how he had raised a murderer of a son, who sought for pleasure from a knife to a heart not his.

But some hearts were intertwined and interlocked in ways that had assured you feel what they had — if that being a hand to the throat, or a cry for help, it did not matter. Though, I had always convinced myself that I was rather inhumane when it came to feelings other than my own.