Feeling the spotlight on her, appreciating the supposedly curious glances and probably patient souls of her immediate roommates, Heather triggered the second turn of this garment-hating game. “I reckon it wouldn’t be as wild.” Compared to a naked dance in public, her story would be more private and discreet. “Or as amorous, I’m afraid.” Heather added. “A drama, you might say.” Come to think of it, the woman reconsidered the defining theme of her story. “And a crime.” Leaning back, she got comfortable in her seat. “For me? Oh, that would be horror, beyond any doubt. I trust, that would be fitting for a stormy night, for I will be telling you how I died.” She commenced narrating her tale…
It was 1930s, so to speak. A roaring decade of wine and jazz. Colourful in a sense, but also black and white. And crimson red. Definitely a period Heather would have liked to experience, in real life. The production values were honestly splendid, especially given the relatively small budget of the project. The set was almost a time machine. A gateway to a more poetic time frame. At least, the film depicted the era as such. It offered radiance, while omitting the common disputes of the age. The charm of playing the mysterious, it had attracted her the most about accepting the role, and not a particularly handsome payroll. The up-and-coming director she was supposed to work with, he was quite promising as well. At the time, he had already two well-critiqued films under his belt. And, of course, a convincing potential for further success. It was a good investment for her career. Now thinking about it, it hadn’t really paid off as well as it could have. Heather, however, never regretted accepting the role. The story was interesting, the story that involved the good, the bad and the ugly, so to speak.
“No. I haven’t played any of them, if you do wonder,” she claimed, “I played the victim instead.”
Her character’s ulterior motives had never been explained in the film, why she ruined so many lives, what she planned to accomplish. How she could see the future in her dreams, know how the people will die. It didn’t really matter though, as the story was about accepting one’s fate. Instead of being afraid of the future, it was about living the moment. Her character had seen her own death, dreamed about how her blood soaked the bedsheets when she drew her last breath in her conquered bedroom. The killer was not clear however, the images too blurry to be certain. She could guess the suspects though, future culprits of her cold-blooded murder. A rich gentleman, a cruel mobster, and a dirty, penniless brute. Electing to stay at the centre of this dangerous triangle, she slept with them all. Let the wealthy spoil her with expensive gifts, allowed the gangster to drag her around within the unyielding grasp of his hands. Got dirty in the slums in various ways. Beaten quite often, but sometimes held the leash as well. Using the sinful allure of her body, she subtly pulled their strings, made them fight for her in a selfish game of flattery and abuse. She convinced the emotionally vulnerable gentleman that his wife wasn’t the right person. Stole from the mobster to live large. Tested how long she could stay untainted among those who walked lowly streets. It was rather fun.
“Fun to play the seductive, that is.” Heather elaborated. “You may say that they are just actors, paid to be bewitched in the name of following the script. And you’d be right.” She nodded. “But that isn’t the interesting part of the story, you see.”
The set was like a rollercoaster ride for her. Contrasting fantasies to explore. For the sake of filmmaking, of course. Tender, dangerous and kinky; all in the same picture, chasing each other like the adjacent spokes of a wheel. What could have been completed in only a few months had lasted more than half a year. Mostly since the director wanted to shoot the scenes in chronological order. Something that cost time and money, but helped the actors better adopt their fictional identities. There wasn’t any nudity per se, but the themes and implied moments were quite suggestive.
“So, not every one of you might have come of age to watch it at the time.” Without pointing any fingers at anyone, Heather suggested.
Dancing with these men in such a ‘playful’ manner, toying with the varying values they individually possessed; it was a dangerous game. It didn’t feel right, but certainly felt good. It was her last meal however, as the death row inmate of the prison called life. Bitter, sour and sweet, it was a dish of many flavours. Tricking the men with the faux promise of delightfulness, she ended up screwing them all. Only, in different ways. They thought they were using her, but it was really the opposite. One of them lost a fortune, and the weight of his name. Another said goodbye to the little dignity he had. And she cost the last his family. Although not exactly the same, they all had a reason to take her life at the end. Which one would do it though? Who would be first to think she deserved not to draw breath anymore. Whom she had screwed the hardest?
“I believe you all got it right. It was the posh gentleman, alright.” The storyteller revealed what the film actually didn’t.
Only satin silk of her nightgown to clad her birthday suit, she lay across her double bed one night. A loud bang from the front door, and she raced to shut the door of her bedroom. Trapped within the accent walls, she finally understood that was the end. Heavy thuds of her intruder neared, and eventually stopped on the other side. Now, only a weak door stood between her and her mysterious murderer. She was afraid, but also curious and accepting. To look upon the last face of her life, she complied with her fate and opened the door. “Oh… You.” She managed to tell before the camera panned away from her. As the credits rolled, that was the untimely end of her character’s story, and the beginning of Heather’s really.
To stay during the production, the studio had rented a relatively small but stylish flat in the city. The filming finally finished, she was preparing to move out. It was another job done, but there were some lingering questions. Not about what had been shot, but things that had been left to the audience’s imagination. She wondered it too, how such a kindly gentleman might have done it? The kindly actor who played him sported the qualifications of the role in real life as well. It could have been interesting to hear his take on the murder. Before she would move out, Heather initiated an indeed quite interesting discussion about it with him. Back in the day, those dreadful media outlets wrote something about how a certain actress ‘vandalized’ her apartment before her departure. They surely liked exaggerating things, made quite a fuss about a little disorder, some broken furniture and a puddle of shattered glass.
“It wasn’t the whole flat as they wrote it,” Heather alleged, “Only my bedroom.”
In her still orderly place, Heather asked him the question after some small talk and, of course, a couple of drinks. She had just played a wicked seductress, and certainly had what it would take to trigger a tension of sexual nature. All of a sudden, her bedroom began to look awfully similar to the last set of the film. It promised a rather tempting opportunity for method acting. A spontaneous occasion, no carefully crafted script required, only daring ambition. “Dare to show me?” She rubbed the right spot to unmask hidden desires. And he proceeded.
“That was all before my prison term. Needless to say, I was rather bold. Defiant.”
The harsh wall pressed against her back, hands cruder than hers firm around her neck. Some people just had a thing for choking. A hidden kink in a pipe that otherwise conveyed well-mannered waters. He played the part quite well, squeezed her throat with a distinct bulge over his trousers. She was supposed to die on the bed though, paint the sheets with her vital fluid. He perhaps didn’t squeeze her throat that tight, but she kicked him quite hard. Delaying her imminent ‘demise,’ she ran off. Until adamant fingers around her ankle brought her down. Lying with a flattened chest, she could only manage to climb back up with aid of the lean legs of a nearby table. However, not before he did. Only telltale signs of arousal distinguished between real distress and twisted fun. A vigorous chase blazed in her bedroom. On her part, it was really a struggle. She could only run so much though. And soon enough, she succumbed to her stubborn pursuer. Toned arms lifted her up, only to toss her frame onto the bed, where she belonged. By the time he pinned the woman under his weight, his glorified body part almost looked like it was going to pierce through his trousers, all the while she herself felt like her bra was tighter than usual. It must have looked that way as well, as he grasped the hills atop her chest. One of his hands shifted from the brunette’s bust to her neck. Her back arched, her legs aimlessly flailed in the background. Not all of her squirming was in vain though as she managed to sink her teeth into his hand. Abandoning his plans of a clean ‘murder’, he reached for the ornate lamp on the nightstand. Lifting it up above his head, the gentleman-turned-murderer slammed it down.
“Not into my head, obviously.”
Playing dead, her supposedly limp legs fell onto the soft mattress. Her clenched fists now relaxed, Heather lay motionless on the crumpled bed sheets. Lips slightly parted, eyes wide open. Until a cough eventually forced her to drop this private act.
“So, as promised, this is how I died.”
All that talk about her throat, or talking in general, made the woman thirsty. Whether it was true or not, she hoped it was entertaining to listen to. Regardless, that was the end of it, her little story. “Do you have any questions I shall consider?” Heather offered. “I have only one, which you should know.” Whether it was true or not.
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