Wax Wings - The Song of the Sociopath

 

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3.     

 

 

 “WAX WINGS”

 

 

Rémy

 

 

 

 

 

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Look him in the eye, ma petite.

It is your tears he yearns for.

That glimmer of fear in your beautiful blues.

 

To him, it is respect.

 

That is his desire.

That is why he clenches his fists.

Why he smiles when you bleed for him.

 

Maybe, that is why he makes you watch.

 

 

She calls for you, your mother.

She calls for you as his hands move upon her.

 

Lustful, now.

The alpha male and the little woman.

 

An opera of pain.

 

And you have to watch the curtains fall.

 

You are forced to wait for the applause of an absent audience.

 

 

There is no love in her eyes.

Only a misplaced sense of duty.

 

There is nothing in his.

Nothing but lust and broken promises, made at a forgotten altar a lifetime ago.

 

 

You hear her whimper at his searching hands.

You can’t know it now, but at seventeen, you will see what those hands can take.

 

Take.

 

And never return.

 

 

But, do not listen to her, ma petite.

For your arms are still so small, and his are brutish and muscled.

 

Your little punches make him laugh, and all you can dent in this endeavour is your own pride.

 

You are still a little boy, Rémy.

She cannot expect you to save her.

She cannot expect a hero from a boy, not yet five years alive.

 

Better to wait until the weeping stops and the tears dry.

Better to watch silently as she picks her clothes from the floor with hands that shake.

 

Better to wait for the rasp of his newly opened bottle.

For the satisfied sigh of a man who equates success with a woman’s pain.

 

Only then, ma petite.

Only then can you play with your toys.

 

 

 

You’ll tell yourself that you can bury such things.

That the past will always remain in the past.

 

You cannot know then that the past is a stone.

A weight everyone must carry.

 

 

A millstone that hangs about your neck.

Waiting to drag you down to the depths you forced yourself to forget.

 

A presence you will only feel at seventeen, when your first woman’s hands move beyond your belt buckle, and she finds no response.

 

She asks you if she is not pretty enough.

 

It is easier to blame her than yourself.

 

You do so, with a sneer.

 

And you realise you’ve become Him.

Something that makes the blood turn to ice in your veins.

 

The vase she throws will leave a scar, but at thirty years old, your hair is long.

Long enough to keep such scars from prying eyes.

 

 

On your thirtieth birthday, you realise you have become adept at hiding such things.

 

Do not fret, ma petite.

 

By then, you will know what you are.

 

 

 

And you will finally win at Hide & Seek.

 

 

 

 

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12th December, 1994

 

 

Ty Warner Penthouse Suite, Four Seasons Hotel,

East 57^th St, New York, USA.

 

 

03.24am

 

 

“I really shouldn’t, Frenchie. I think I’ve already had too much and I…wait, what?”

“Just a little more, ma verité. Let Rémy take care of you.”

 

The AmEx card does its work upon the mirror, and two white lines appear.

One is longer than the other, as was my intention.

 

            “You’re gonna be the death of me, babe. Okay, okay…fine. Pass me that straw.”

 

The longer line disappears up Its nose, as expected.

And I smile my first genuine smile in six hours.

It mistakes my mirth for gratitude and I play along.

 

Always, I play along.

 

Many thieves prefer a clear head for what is to come, eschewing narcotics and alcohol, believing themselves better than those from whom they take.

 

Not me.

For I am not a thief.

Merely an opportunist.

 

I take my turn with the straw, and my mind becomes a singular entity.

The Goal is given new focus and I smile once more at It.

 

A pitiful thing, cross-legged on the floor in Dior black.

Features stretched and made shiny by many surgeries.

 

Something constantly searching for Its true face.

 

            “Is there any more of that delightful Perrier-Jouet,ma verité?”

“I…what? Yeah, yeah. I left it over there by the piano. Bring the bottle. This stuff always makes me so thirsty.”

 

I pour the remains of the bottle into a crystal flute, right to the brim.

Mine remains full, as I have not touched it in three hours.

 

For it took far more than an Armani suit and an ounce of cocaine to get to this hotel room.

I do not plan on ruining the Goal with champagne carelessness.

 

It slurps the Perrier-Jouet, as though drinking warm water or day-old coffee.

The champagne is nothing special; a mere accessory.

The trademark props of another world.

A world far from mine.

 

Yet, not too far to take.

 

            “Come, my beauty. Let us watch the sun rise over this beautiful city.”

“I…uh…I don’t know, Rémy. I feel…kinda…I don’t know…kinda weird. Maybe I should go to bed or something…”

“Do not worry, ma verité. Let us watch the sun wake the city. Then? Then I will show you what I can do...”

 

This vague promise of physical union brings It from the floor on shaky feet.

           

“Oh yeah? Whaddya gonna do to me, huh? I hear you French guys are pretty good with your tongues…”

“For the price of one sunrise, sweet one. One sunrise, and I will show you just how good we can be...”

 

The double doors open onto a balcony of glass railings.

Central Park glitters, fifty-two stories beneath me.

Far enough away that I cannot see the desperation in the eyes of the addicts, the weary prostitutes and the shambling homeless.

 

I take Its hand and kiss Chanel lips against the railings, as the sun’s rays bleed across the morning sky.

 

A chaste kiss, burdened with the promise of so much more.

 

I turn Its body towards Central Park, undoing the back of the gown as I do so.

It smiles in Its stupor as my fingers trace the curvature of surgically reduced hips.

 

The catch in the Cartier watch springs open, yet It does not notice.

Still so lost in the narcotic morning, thinking only of sweat, pleasure and shared fire.

 

My lips at the nape of Its neck, as I undo the clasp of the Gavello pendant.

My fingertips, tracing the lobes of Its ears as the Damiani earrings fall into my hands.

 

Still It moans in pleasure as my busy hands drop to Its thighs, bunching the gown higher and higher.

 

Still, It does not appreciate the beauty of what is about to occur.

I speak the last words It is ever going to hear with a smile on my face.

My true face.

 

            “Fly, ma verité. Fly, fly fly.”

           

It tries to turn, to face me with questions.

Yet the answers lie in the pavestones of 57^th St.

 

And It finds them, in a blur of torn Dior and swift movement.

 

 

 

It has time for one brief scream before the end.

 

Yet, I have time for another flute of champagne before I begin wiping down all I have touched.

 

The world is indeed a crooked place.

Yet, only for those who pretend they are not themselves crooked.

 

Mais, c’est la vie.