and rome crumbled to dust

In secondary school I was given the part of an eccentric, murderous, wealthy–man. To practice, as an artist would I immersed myself in the sea of corrupt dignitaries in which my parents liked to swim. I met three men who all killed other people. One, I believe, killed three. These men all regularly contributed large sums of money to my parents’ restoration efforts. I, then and now, refuse to let these types of people have an influential hand in our personal matters. My twin sisters were both tugging my hands along so I couldn’t stay to chat but I, instantly, knew what I must emulate. Wives are so easy to seduce when their husbands are enchanted by business. These husbands’ scheming brains made their heads hollow. They fit on a silver platter like all the rest of their food. The day before the final production, I, nonchalant, served the heads of three shipbuilding moguls for third course at the Galerija Vartai, right before the auctioning of my younger sisters' canvases. In the newspaper the next day, the politicians' photos splashed on the front next to a glowing review of my performance, my parents asked I, inconspicuous, about if I had known these men too, how devastating. I said, no, and put away my half bloodied stage gear in front of them, who were none the wiser about the origin.