“You have nothing to apologize for, Mister Augustine. I’m more than pleased to be an observer.” Samira passed through, stooping only to set her bag beside the door where he remained, guarding like a gargoyle as he wiped at his hands. Eyes took in the scene: beautiful artwork running down the man’s flesh and Cyrus the artist. The piece was truly something to DaVinci’s lost works, those still being recovered from a portfolio of anatomy sketches and inventions never to be. Samira could only imagine how it unfurled, what exactly caused the rivulets of blood to seep from him, eked secrets spilling down and collecting beneath him like a mass of black ichor. The scent of the blood was pungent enough to taste but that never quite bothered her. Instead she toiled with taking the entirety of the sight in, imagining which ministrations of Cyrus’ hands caused the cuts and the bashes, the harsh bruises that were already blossoming into brilliant and beautiful hues of purple beneath the slices and tears. Cyrus’ garden. She loved it, truly. And the imagery that fell with it: the wide arc of Cyrus’ arm as he made to crush knuckles into jaw, an arc of an angel’s wing and the cloud of blood the brilliant halo to outline the heavenly being beside her. To be able to watch something so intriguing and skillful was a treat. The rich preferred opera and theater, Samira had blood and torture.
And she was ready to press herself into the edge of the bed to do just that: observe, until the words spilled from Cyrus’ lips. Eyes shifted to his face to seek the meaning (could she really join) and noted the collection of beaded effort forming at the line of his hair. His breathlessness caused her to smirk, to admire the obvious effort he’d already put in. “Do you mean that in earnest?” She wouldn’t want to impose, to intercede on the conversation Cyrus was already having with the subject before them. Though the idea of partaking spread elation into her, caused the smirk she had been gating to pool out and flood across her features. As she stooped for her bag once more she noted the tools on the table, assigned them to the marks on the man: this tool to peel, this tool to bruise, this tool to cut and — were those pliers? When she straightened with a knuckleduster in hand, one older than herself by at least ten years and far too clean to detail the many uses it had over that time, she revealed the object to him — seeking approval for it’s use, or perhaps to clarify her stop. Before she spoke she noted the various spots around the room, made a mental checklist of things she’d need to go over once the chore here was done but … as she spoke she felt her voice come out hoarse. She could blame it, perhaps, on being alone for most of the day but she knew that it was the excitement of the predicament ahead that cause such a husky tone. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your conversation, Mister Augustine. You seem so engaged. But if you wouldn’t mind another opinion in the matter … perhaps I could bring your debate to light?”
More than pleased to watch. Of his years in his line of work, the self-created title of the occupation he held, this would be the first Cyrus held an audience aside from those experience his work firsthand. Perhaps only once a week did he have personal meetings such as these, and those were during busy months, every three when it was slow and everyone cooperated. For the most part his time was spent with footwork: meetings where no cameras could spy, speaking to officers and heads of offices who fed him his dues despite whether they were unaware of his false credentials or were compensated with heavy pockets for their sweat-less efforts. In either instance, there was no third party onlooker to bear witness nor would it be of any amusement, lest the witness intended ill-will against him or his connections. There was an art to this as well, one that made the informant’s chest and head rise when he heard his colleagues boast about their sadistic exploits. He needn’t resort to violence to obtain credible intel, especially when it could coerce lies or fabricated information just to relent; majority of the populace were more than generous when they believed a badge, a knowing tone, and a pleasant smile to seal their confidence. Still when someone’s lips seemed self-sewn or when Cyrus felt himself a sift of goods without equal return, he’d find himself in a secluded room such as this asking his audience to waste no more of his time in the most urgent of ways. He’d never express if he enjoyed when it came to these measures (in this case creating bruised sores only to carve filigree-like designs into them) and he scoffed and deadpanned with boredom to those who openly admired their own work of worthless and unnecessary pain unto others– it was crude and indecent to admit to such delights.
This would have been the first he held an audience for these morbid, but necessary, delights yet her eagerness to join quickly shifted that he would be audience to her work instead, or at least his work in the hands of another– another first. “I mean it,” he confirmed with languid closed eye approval of whatever device of persuasion she wished to use. It would have been an honor himself to claim witness to her practice, or even that of her mentor’s when his black lung was still around to cough about. Cyrus’ trade with the cleaners was an exchange of rooms: where his part ended their began, and when they came he left them to their art of undoing– the flecks spattered on the wall and ceiling, the black hole beneath the man that threatened to swallow him whole, the slightest hair or drop of sweat he hadn’t seen fall from person she could make disappear in a vanishing act more impressive than Houdini. The elephant was always later found, but the bodies and small nuances that gave any indication for notice were wiped from existence. Had he the chance after this to witness her skills, the trade her mentor raised her to know, he thought to stay for it this time, especially after troubling her so early. For now, it was his part to rest, slinking to a seat beside her as if it was already decided, still working out the stains in the cracks of his hands. “You’re not imposing and another opinion might bring about new ideas. Every detail could always use a woman’s touch,” he teased, “every conversation a woman’s word. You’re welcome to use anything you like. Careful though, his jaw is a little tender.”
