The concrete room was dark and cold for a hot summer day in June, a spotlight shone over the unconscious figure which his head swayed from side to side while his usual paper straight suit was torn, tattered and a sleeve was missing, his perfect slicked back blonde ducktail was sticking out all over the place, his pale skin was scattered with bruises all along with his bodies and scars which I happily smiled at.

My loafers clicked against hard concrete as four figures appeared behind the chair of the man, they stared at him with such hate, waiting for their turn to maim him, waiting for a flick on my finger, I pulled the cabriole to my lips as smoke slipped from my red-dyed lips, I held up a whiskey glass from my side still filled with the delicious amber colour as I brought the strong liquid to my lips, my eyes watched the still unconscious man as I threw my head back and swallowed down the rest of the burning fluid then threw the glass towards the man.

When the glass touched his physique, he flinched and howled in pain "Good evening, Darling" a purr bubbled from my throat as I crossed my arms "how was your nap? My love" I smiled in rage as he looked about the room for me, I reached out and flicked the lamp on the credence that held a neatly folded white robe and hood. 

"Vivian…" he enquired in a voice filled with confusion that suddenly vanished as soon as he realized he was tied up and a noose hung lightly around his neck. "What is this?" He sneered as I laughed deeply.

I let my fingers lightly move over the pure white hood and lifted it, showing the man I spent my life with "America First, one god, one country, one flag…" I dropped the hood as he stared at me in disbelief until he understood what this was:

His dark eyes "Vivian" he warned as I stepped closer with a sweet smile on my lips "don't do this, sweetheart, you are in over your head" He sneered in a condescending tone, he began to struggle against his restraints I could imagine the rope cutting into his wrist.

A click and a projector lit up the darkened room, the video was a news broadcast which I couldn't even watch because it was engraved into my brain, the four bodies hung from a tree swaying in the wind, their skin smooth, dark and their heads covered in white hoods while a cross flickered in flames; such innocence lost because of the colour of their skin, I could imagine them going to school, eating at the dining room table and just getting by, now they were just a memory. 

His eyes looked to the screen with a blank expression, like he was watching that morning cartoon he usually gets lost in "Vivian…" he whispered "you don't want to do this, untie me and We will talk about this, everything will be fine, you will be fine" he explained.

A deep velvet laugh bubbled from my throat and I reached down into my pegged leg pants, pulling out a dagger. I curved it around his neck where a rope sat "oh my love, are they fine?" I stepped behind him, grabbing his head and aiming it at the screen "that was a family, mother, father, children, those people didn't choose the skin on their bodies let alone the circumstances of history. The history of people raping this soil and spraying it with the blood of the innocent" I moved in front of him again "No, my love, they are not fine, so how can I be?" I crossed my arms, lifting the cabriole to my lips taking the last suck before flicking it to the ground and stepping on it. "Any last words?" I walked over to a lever.

His eyes were darkened "you are what's wrong with this world, you stain it with your filth and if you hurt me in any way you will pay for it" he screamed, his eyes were red and demeaned, he suddenly looked pale as a ghost and the demon that nested in his heart was brought to life "no matter what you will always be a negro, no money, no white father and no white man could ever love you, you are nothing but dirt" He sneered as I just stared at him blankly, loving this insane look on his face.

I smiled "yes, dirt, blessed by the rain, the heat of the sun and enriched with the power of birth, we glow and no man, whether he is white or not, will stand in the way of a riot of colour" I pushed the lever down and the noose tightens around his neck, pulling from his chair.  

His body pull straight as a board as the noose hung him, he shook as his body struggled to breathe "bitch, Go to hell, nigga" he gasped as I walked up to beneath him, his face turned a sickly blue, eyes bulged out and his lips turned red.

"You go first" I sneered, lifting my arm and stabbing the dagger just below his chest, pulled the knife down his stomach as a terror curly scream sound from the man while blood flowed like a fountain as I ventured on until I reached his belly button, his screams stopped as I stretched it and pulled out his insides.

Blood painted my body as I grabbed the pure white hood and clothing, slipping it on over my blood-soaked body….

I tracked towards the fire burning in the woods until I approached a group of people all clothed in white, a cross burned in the back of the group that sat around the campfire, they were speaking in murmured voices as they hauled at my appearance, they were tense for a moment until they recognise themselves and went on with their meeting, I pulled the gun from my side, aiming at the group before shooting each one of them in the head before panic could erupt; I threw the gun into the fire before heading to the car and grabbing the body.

Once everything was in place, I stood back and admired my handy work, Mr Bennett Tomson, hung from the tree above a burning fire, his inside was hanging out and his face was frozen in terror at his feet laid a burning white robe, a hood hanging from his back pocket, papers, files and photographs of his involvement with the group was stapled to his chest, I smiled before turning to my husband car and setting the whole thing on fire, I mean my late husband's car…

Present-day...

Smoke filtered the room as I sat watching the desk toy which was metal balls on a string, they were perfectly still which irritated the hell out of me, firstly, my day wasn't the best while my days weren't the best, more like a dark pit of hell because I hated my job or rather I hated the fat cat who sat behind office desk with a cigar between his lips and sweat on his brow, secondly, transfer away from leaving the hell hole, thirdly, the son of a bitch won't let me leave, holding this recommendation over my head like a bone over a hungry dog.

He cleared his tobacco filled throat which made me stare up at him, flailing my hat up and down in between my fingers as I waited impatiently for him to stop with his dramatic stance, his face was formed into a deep frown like it always was unless he was making unwanted sexual advances at the poor secretary or making awful inappropriate jokes about his wife, his potbelly and grey turning beard were as charming as he can get, he looked like the very definition of a 'fat cat':

He huffed again as he stared at the newspaper article in his hands which fed me up "is there something you wanted?" I asked as he folded the paper and tossed it towards me.

Placing my hat onto his desk and I unfolded it to find a woman in a black dress with pearls circling her neck in the shade of a black bucket hat, she looked completely in her world, frozen in time, in mid-step the picture of elegance and grace "that is Duchess Vivian Lancaster" I looked away from the newspaper to my boss "yes, a real Duchess, he father was Duke from a small country in Europe, she is an artist and a very wealthy one, not because of her artistic abilities but the hefty trust fund her daddy left her, so what…" he explained before I interrupted him.

"Got a point?" I asked, my voice filled with annoyance as I tossed the paper back onto the table as I grabbed my hat once more and began to flip it again. 

He cleared his throat "straight to the point, she has been married four times in ten years, her husbands are killed mysteriously but because of the secret lives came back to bite them so the Duchess wasn't suspected" he leaned over the newspaper as if the Duchess herself was looking up at him. 

"I still don't know why I am here," I said, flailing around my hat. "All I need from you is my recommendation letter and I am out of here which I have worked my ass off to no avail" 

He glared at me as if it was my fault "if you take the cases I prepare for you, you would have it already" he argued, his nose flaring as I just gave him a warning look.

"Careful, your heart, Sir" I sneered as I stood to my feet, heading for the door but he cleared his throat.

He pushed the newspaper towards me again with a sickening look in his eye "she has had four husbands in ten years, they mysteriously disappeared then found dead a few days later, maned or disfigured or even poisoned, doesn't that awaken your thirst?" He grinned at me evilly. 

I looked at him bored with the whole affair "and you think it's her?" He smiled softly.

"See, you are smart, so be smart about this, find out her secret and get your recommendation letter," he said with a smirk on his face.

I exhaled "I don't write propaganda" I turned to leave.

"You will now" he sneered as I stood for a moment and turned to face him again.

I reflected on my life up until now, five years of working, slaving away and writing senseless journalism instead of using my intelligence and investigation skills. Now I am standing at a crossroads between holding my integrity or selling out to reach a higher goal. But selling means ruining some personal life for the sake of a job I don't have yet, my insides were tingling with such great effect, I mean doesn't my writing define me and my thoughts or should I be a pon for those who express their being; I stood staring at the picture of the woman, her pearls and eyes, the way she looked oblivious to the camera taking her picture, silently perfect; I conjured up a few words of apology because I was about to ruin this woman's life.

I grabbed the newspaper with such aggression that my boss jumped back but that didn't stop his devious smile on his face "you have three weeks" I just stared him down "I am being generous" 

"I suppose my column should be on the regular" it was a statement, not a question as he chucked.

He sat down with a smug expression "I am not made of money" he chuckled before he dismissed me.

…

The humming on the road through the small town by the river, the weather was hot and sticky against my skin, it was the only thing I dislike about my hometown but it was nice to be back in the familiar salty air, the black leather seats began to stick to the back of my thighs as I shifted out of the comfort, crossing my legs as Mr Jameson, my driver,  eyes locked to mine:

"Mrs Lancaster, how was Morocco?" He asked like he usually does every time, I don't know if it was out of interest or just obsequious.

I smiled softly "it was hot, dusty and dry" I joked as I stared at my deep red coloured nails that were cluttered with rings and bracelets against the velvet pencil skirt.

"Sounds like home" he laughed in his straight cut suit, flat cap, his posture was straight and his smile was genuine.

I smiled bitterly "but nothing beats that Morocco sky, the sandy glow and the sense of spices in the air" I expressed as I felt the eyes of the man on my features.

"I always wondered why you always come back to this" he gestured towards the small town centre we drove through.

The town was cultured, to say the least, with tiny diners, Local stores and town hall, not to mention the country club that ran this whole place, it was the most toxic place to be and it's probably the reason I turned down the board position much to Ms May's delight but being in a room who despises me for being alive and wish to profit from my money; toxic energy is the fuel of breakdown and depression, I don't need more of that. 

But this was home, beautiful, dysfunctional and boring but it's what I was used to and it's comfortable  "because it's home" I expressed.

The Cadillac slid into the perfect picture of a white mansion, scenic view of lush green gardens where men and women stood like statues, still and diligent, waiting for the car to stop, once it stopped they came to life rushing towards the car to get my luggage and stuff, Mr Jameson opens the door while he helped me out and I thanked him as Mrs Florence, my housekeeper, took off my jacket, my gloves and sunglasses:

"Afternoon, Mrs Florence, how was your time? I hope my absences weren't lacking" I smiled as she nodded softly.

"It's been quiet as usual" she expressed with a warm smile, she was a short, plump woman with a wise smile and cute doe eyes "so nothing has changed" she laughed softly.

I laughed soft "of course" we began to walk towards the mansion when Mrs Florence stopped my stride and placed a pair of slippers in front of me, I stepped out of my heels into them, as I looked up a maroon ford mustang passed by suburban, a man sat firm and straight but his eyes were on me; his eyes were shadowed by the wide of his hat so I couldn't see the texture of the folds around his eyes or colour of them, his lips pouted into curiosity and his knuckles turned white, we stared at each other for a passing moment which felt like hours; I knew who he was, I knew what he did and I knew he was here for me.

"Mrs Lancaster…" Mrs Florence looked into the street where the car just passed. "You ok?" She asked cautiously.

"Yup, just…" I breathe in the deep air "taking it all in, it's good to be back home" I smiled at her as she moved towards the house silently.

"Welcome back, Duchess" she teased as I just smiled as I walked home.

….

Driving through this small town fueled my memories with a vindication, it reminded me of my hometown, small, quint and noisy without cause, it reminded me of my too-young parents to dream of love and peace when they were birthed into war, it reminded me of picnics, Sunday services and apple pie on the front porch but then it reminded me of black clothes, mourners who could care less and those dam church bells that rang out so cold, bare.

I shook my head of the memories and grabbed the piece of paper I was given, I looked at the street address just as I came upon the white mansion with perfectly cut hedges, the marble statues and a pure white house that look out of place in the colourful town; A slick black Cadillac pulled into the driveway, circling about the marble water fountain which made me slow down to watch this bizarre spectacle when a woman stepped out of the car.

She had this classic way she moved up the driveway as a swarm of people crowded around the car, she stopped to turn towards the road and my heart stopped, her eyes found mine, sharp like a cat, her nose small as a button and lips luscious rose petals, we share this unintended stare as we stepped into a world this one, not in the sense of romance but in sense of sizing each other up; this was a small town and she knew every car that travels through it, I was new, I was a stranger but I had the advantage, I knew her and little did she know, she was my next victim.

….

Creaks and screech can be heard throughout the silent mansion as I sat in the pure white dining room with a plate of minimalistic features and a few deep vintage artefacts scattered around the room, I stared at the over the top centrepiece which was a barrel tree, still in that disturbing white while a chandelier made of deer antlers hung over it, I ignore my deep desire to paint the walls red and looked down to my food which was as perfect at the room that clouded around me; a ball of pasta sat in the middle of a marble dish while asparagus laid to the side of it along with two basil leaves not touching, of course.

I closed my eyes swallowing up my anxiety, pushing away the thought of obliterating such a perfect room, this perfect food and most of all the silence but I needed this perfection, this order, this utter structure, for the sake of control, it one thing one out, I wouldn't be able to rile it back in.

Suddenly I heard the sound of the total heaving, a cry of pure pain as if someone had been through some great torture and their voice was void of scream, it's sounded unbearable and utterly sorrowful, I opened my eyes to see a split image of myself in a column wedding dress and veil which was bloodied, torn and stained, I averted my eyes instantly, pretending the woman wasn't there; that her pain cries meant nothing to me, when:

"We know you see her" a slurring husky voice sounded to my side but I didn't give her the satisfaction, I just picked up my fork and knife, stabbing the asparagus on my plate before sliding it.

"I get the trend is short hair but are you forgetting the fact that short hair means afro" a chatty voice sounded next to me, she whispered the last words as if it was sworn word "I mean was a charm to our mane of curls, you know, wild, lush and desirable, now instead we look like nappy head in the slightest bit of humidity" she expressed with her hand, I turned to look at this woman with such disgust; she sat straight as a board with a makeup case resting in her hand and blush coloured lipstick slowly circling the parameters of her lips, her blush coloured dress swam loose around her in a low high style and a fountain of flowers circled her legs.

"We have bigger issues to deal with especially that man who slow down this afternoon, I don't know ft it was the sound of his engine that scared me or his brazen stare of his" This voice was shaky like someone had reached into their soul and was giving it a good jerking. "Shouldn't that be the topic of interest?"  The woman sat in a brown turban, thick sunglasses and an outfit no one would look twice at.

"You are just paranoid like usually, maybe it was a sweet suitor, I mean we did pull off the peplum blazer, not many can" she giggled before placing her fingers to her lips and whispered, "like Mrs Greene, I mean lose a few, right?" She sat back giggling as she prompted up the gorgeous loose curls and then stared into the mirror again. "Can't believe you cut your hair?" she signed in bitter reframe.

"She might have a point, hold on" she glided away in her peignoir robe which had feathers on the sleeves and hem, a corset tightly gripping her waist while mascara was painted around her eyes and a wine clung away along with a cloud of smoke. 

The woman at the end of the table let out a lengthy breathy whine that turned into a full-on wail as the woman dressed in the elegant blush gown just turned to stare at her "do you ever stop crying? I mean I get the whole sorrow thing but damn" she hissed as she fixed her lipstick for the nineteenth time we sat her "and cry does nothing good for the skin, I mean we already have this shade of brown and red doesn't go with it, Hun" she bopped the woman's nose with a condensing smirk.

The woman stopped wailing and stared at the other woman with puffy red eyes. "Skin issues such as acne and breakouts can be caused by stress, and, therefore, crying can 

indirectly reduce acne breakouts by reducing the stress, so…" she forcefully wailed towards the woman as she backed up away from her.

The sloppy steps came walking back to us as a newspaper fell onto my plate, destroying the food that sat so proudly, I lift the paper as the women gather around me "that's where I saw him, Eric Carmichael, that sexy creative son of bitch" she expressed so proudly of her findings. 

"Woah, isn't the man who writes articles you love, about faraway places that you proudly visited," she said between her heaving cries over my shoulder. 

"Yes, a journalist in town" she whispered while holding herself, then suddenly gasped "he is here because of us, he knows, we need to engage plan A" she shouted, grabbing her hair, she turned to take off when a woman who dropped the paper grabbed her shoulders.

"Don't overrated" she pointed out in a slurping voice as she down all the wine in her glass.

"Or he could be it" a soft whimpering voice "he is here to see our art and show it to the wall then we will fall in love because of our expressive minds and live happily ever after," she said in a dreamlike state.

"No" the woman with an empty glass and cigarettes between her lips.

"Love bullcrap, he is here to fuck" she leaned over my shoulder as her amour overtook my senses, it was too sweet and too flowery to breathe. "Look at those eyes, gosh, we are sexy, Marilyn Monroe but you know less inappropriate" she giggled as the other stared at her with wide eyes "what? the lady should close her legs once in a while, can you even call her one"  she expressed while the other came back to the issue at hand.

"This man is trouble and we need to keep an eye on him but let's see just how interesting he is" she grinned with glass to her lips.

The lights began to flicker in the room, I turned my head towards the end of the long table, a shiver ran up my spine and a strained breath clawed up my throat as the room turned dark and distorted, the pure white room was splattered with blood which pulses like the heart in my chest, the others went silent as a transparent figure appeared at the of the table, sitting in a chair, almost leaning back, her knee-high boots were crossed at the ankles, resting on the marble with a cigarette between her lips and a devious smirk on her lips; her eyes were red with rage and animated with evil intentions, she seemed almost inhuman:

A phone appeared next to me as the woman's eyes turned up to stare at me and I turned into a trance like state, I felt my eyes rim with tears but they didn't fall, insides trembling in fear but I didn't shake, I just stared at this woman who shared my face and suddenly she was right in front of me, nose touching nose, breath mingling with breath and her eyes following my eyes with every movement:

"Find him" the most smooth, velvety voice pulled from her lips like honey, it caught me in a web of pure enchantment and utter obedience.

The phone rang next to me and lifted the piece to my ear "Eric Carmichael, Journalist, from New York, find him" I said in a voice that was not my own, it was cold, foreign and abandoned of any life, I hung up the phone before the person could answer.

The woman smile so charmingly as if I was her little pet and I had just completed a new trick, her long nails softly caress my forehead down to my chin, touching my cheek on her way before she lifted my chin with a seductive smile before pushing back into my body; I gasped to find the room as it was before, no blood, no distortion and no her, just the woman sitting in their chairs as before:

"So…" the woman in the sunglasses caresses her hair "is the short hair a communal thing or…." She questioned looking at me for answers "because I am afraid of hives which can turn into an infection which could turn deadly" she began to stress with crazy eyes and expressive hands " which, well, leads to death" her eyes turned a dangerous red.

So I just stared at her for a moment before picking up my utensils and began eating once more...