Hell's Actor

It was a rainy evening in London.

In theatres across Great Britain, Gene Conti's End to Odyssey was playing.

In a corner of a dazzling nightclub, in an alcove, sat a man with a promiscuous face. His attire was simple—a tucked-in white shirt, black dress pants, and leather shoes.

His collarbone, visible through his open buttons, gave off a wet lustre.

Gene ran his fingers through his hair. They were slick and wet.

His gaze studied his surroundings.

Young men and women, carefree and inebriated, were enjoying themselves. Their hair was frizzy and puffed up. Their attire was snazzy and colorful.

To Gene, it all looked a bit off, as if the idea was right but not the execution.

It was a familiar sight. Everything in the world was like that. Nothing was quite right.

All the colors were in the wrong places. That was why it was so necessary for him to put things right, to fix the colors.

Climbing down the stairs to the dancing floor, a man in a grey suit and smart glasses looked around like a lost lamb.

Spotting Gene Conti, he walked over with brisk pace, the suitcase in his hand swaying ever so slightly.

"Good evening, Mr—"

Sipping on his gin, Gene gestured for him to take a seat before continuing.

While wiping his square head with the cuff of his suit, the man sat down and downed the clear spirit brought to him in a martini glass.

He breathed out hot air.

"That's strong."

He looked at the round table and the cushioned seats. Flanking Gene were a pair of girls, flirty and dressed immodestly.

"They are not prostitutes, my good man."

It was as if the actor had read his mind, yet he couldn't admit it.

"So, what's the word?"

The man cleared his throat, recovering from the burning sensation.

"One of the theatres showing End to Odyssey was burned down by protestors. The owner of the business is seeking reparations for his losses."

"And?"

"He is seeking them from you."

Gene burst into a little fit of laughter.

His hand, around the waist of the woman to his right, tightened.

"Did you hear that, dear? They want me to pay." His gaze returned to the spectacled man across the table. "Why would I pay them again? Can't they ask the production?"

"They know they can't possibly hold them responsible, and with the way you keep taunting the protestors, they believe there is a strong case."

Gene swirled his drink. "And what do you think?"

The spectacled man cleared his throat and gazed at his surroundings somewhat anxiously.

"Usually, the court would throw out a case like this…"

"But?"

"There are plenty of conservative judges who'd love to oversee this case. They might hold different views than some of our friends in the judiciary system."

"Of course, even the justice system is flawed." He ran a hand through the long black hair of the woman to his left. "So much to fix, and they would rather persecute an actor."

"The public sentiment isn't favourable either."

"The older generation's sentiment, you mean? Because the way I see it, the younger generation is with me all the way."

"Look," the man said, putting forward his palms facing each other in a perfect parallel. "I am your lawyer, and I should stick with advising you on the law. But since the situation calls for it, I must inform you that this route you are going is certainly disastrous."

"I know."

The man's bushy moustache shook. "I don't believe you do."

He swept a hand across the scenery around them.

"Look where you have put yourself, in danger's way. Why are you in such a public area?"

"You worry too much, Robertson. If I am not here, who'll represent the modern thought?"

Robertson pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, contemplating.

The song playing in the club changed to make way for lazier tones.

"The protests will only get fiercer. This wasn't the first time a place was burned down, and it wouldn't be the last. Those who want to take advantage of the situation are plenty."

His eyes were fierce with a gleam that betrayed his fears.

"As much as you want to continue this fight for a freer lifestyle, there are certain times you must stay your hand. Remember, even tides must ebb, and armies must retreat."

Gene considered it reasonable advice.

'But will it change anything?'

This fight for sexual freedom, which started with a few risky pictures to draw attention to one of his films a few years back, had now become more meaningful than he had ever wished.

It had drawn the ire of religious men and women of this beautiful world.

'It's dangerous now.'

But that's why it needed to continue.

"We still haven't found Clarice."

The lawyer had nothing to say, no retorts, no replies. There was no advice he could provide that would bring her back.

"Has it already been more than four years?"

Clarice Caligari, also known as the Cleopatra of the modern age, was Gene Conti's favourite actress. She was beautiful, charming, funny, and had an affectionate personality.

She was the woman with whom he had done that risky photoshoot.

"How long will it take before we find her bones?"

There was no answer from any of them.

"The best I can hope for is that her death was quick and that nothing untoward happened to her before it."

The awful possibilities boiled his blood.

"I will fight that case," he answered, clutching the glass. "Even if the judge turns out to be someone against us, I will fight it."

"I understand. What about the—"

"The movement will continue."

"But why?"

Robertson truly couldn't understand why it was so hard for Gene to keep his sexual escapades to himself.

'What if it is a taboo? Who cares? Is it necessary to publicize everything?'

The newspapers didn't mind; they enjoyed the sales.

"It's not just about sexual freedom." Gene looked at the woman to his left. "It's about taboos. It's about all those things that shouldn't be—but are—embarrassing to say out loud."

He looked at the silver ring on his little finger.

"It's about drunk husbands beating their wives. It's about children forced into unspeakable acts. It's about the awful teachers, the priests, and the relatives."

Disgust was written all over the great actor's face.

"If we can't talk about physical intimacy openly, how could we talk about crimes surrounding it?"

All of it was true. But most of all, he didn't want Clarice's disappearance to be in vain.

'Nobody remembers her.'

They had forgotten her.

'And all because the papers are paid off.'

"They can sue me as much as they want. I will fight the Catholics, the Protestants, and every other beast."

'I will fight God, if I must.'

Robertson nodded, picked up his suitcase, and took his leave.

As he was climbing the stairs, he looked back at his client.

'In the court of law, I can help. But who will fight for you on the streets?'

The suitcase in his hand felt heavy. The weight of the court papers suddenly felt heavier.

"If they came for Clarice, they will come for you."

He would have prayed to God for his client's safety if God weren't his client's enemy.

Soaked in sweat, Averie woke up.

He looked around. He was in his hotel room in Paris.

He took off his t-shirt, threw it on the bed, and ran towards the mirror near the bathroom door.

With the press of a button, the lamp light burned to life, painting the black ink on his chest in bright orange.

The fourth tattoo that Lucifer had granted him was burning, the flames dancing frantically as if feeding off his dream.

'So, your job is to show me my past?'

Averie clicked his tongue.

'How unnecessary.'

He took a breath, wiped his sweat, and drank a glassful of water.

'At least, it's nothing dangerous.'

***

The days in Paris were spent uneventfully—aside from filming, where Averie had a hard time getting out of character while portraying The Lady.

Months passed, seasons changed, but nothing big happened.

The kitten, aptly named Miss Meow by Averie, spent most of her time lazing around either Min-Ha or Hyerin.

Thankfully, the hotel allowed pets, so she could stay with Averie's team, and the director was kind enough to allow her entry on the set.

Photographing her with Averie religiously, Hyerin—and subsequently entertainment journalists—milked her for engagement on social media.

One of the posts about Miss Meow watching Averie in the dressing room—photographed from behind, so as to avoid showing his makeup and hair—went viral.

Averie didn't understand why anyone would find it cute or how drastically the sentiment around him was starting to change.

To him, the kitten was the stuff of nightmares.

'If it's a cat, and if it loves you, something's wrong with it.'

He avoided bringing Miss Meow into his hotel room, especially at night.

He knew she liked watching him act, which was odd enough. But one night, he spotted her in his room, sitting on his bedside table, watching him with glowing eyes while he slept.

It scared the living hell out of him, prompting him to kick her out before yelling at Hyerin to keep her away from his room at night if she cared for his sanity.