After spending the night at Conor's place, Pamn and Conor went their separate ways the next morning. As the evening approached, Pamn found herself leaning against the doorway of her apartment building, phone in hand, eagerly waiting.
Minutes later, a small, sleek, electric sports car silently cruised down the street. Its purple-tinted headlights and shifting underglow illuminated the dark boulevard. Trying not to smile and to look annoyed, Pamn walked up to the car, getting into the passenger's side.
Conor looked her up and down. She was wearing brand-new clothes from Chanel in understated ivory and cream tones, her hair was full and bright, and her lipstick was also bright, though isn't it supposed to be? "Damn." He reached out, grabbing her hand, "My bad for being late, but I got something for you."
"Oh yeah? What?"
"We'll be there soon," he grinned.
The car zipped down the lively street.
"Is there some kinda party going on?" Pamn pointed at the thousands of people who lined the boulevard. Some pointed at them or actually at Conor. Most were adorned with glow sticks and illuminating face paint. The glowing skulls creased as they grinned, running up to the car as it slowed in the busy street. The crowd was small, but to Pamn, it felt like a million people. Their face paint smeared against the windows as they stared inside with wonderment.
"Yeah, there's some kinda city festival."
"They instantly recognize you."
"Fans. They recognize the car. I mean, you don't see a whip like this every day."
"Iconic."
"Yeah, you get it." he smiled.
They stopped in front of a short, clean building ten minutes later. Inside of the studio was modest and minimalistic. Large windows and white concrete walls. A group of men stood by various lighting and computer equipment.
Pamn's eyes met Conor's in confusion, "Uh, what's going on?"
"An audition." A voice echoed from across the room.
"You ready?" Conor said in her ear.
Her bright blue eyes brimmed with panic. Her trembling hands grasped onto Conor's. "I-I didn't know it'd be now!" Her voice was so breathy that it almost couldn't be heard.
"Something wrong?" The same voice from before.
"Come on. Go," Conor urged, pushing her forward.
"W-what do you want me to do?" she asked hesitantly. She stared at the four men before her, unsure which one was talking.
He was darkly taciturn. Tall, with tatted arms and tanned skin. Wearing black basketball shorts, black Air Force sneakers, and a black T-shirt. Monroe stared at her, transfixed. "Take off your shoes." She did as she was told, awaiting further instruction. "Over here," he pulled her by the arm, dragging her in front of an expensive-looking camera. "Wait-" he looked her up and down. She wore a teal blouse, a purse slung across her shoulder, and cut jean shorts."Take off your clothes."
She looked around.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for a place to change, I-" She stopped herself, seeing the man's expression. She swallowed, 'Don't mess this up, Pamn. You've gotta chill. You gotta learn to roll with it. You can't always have a plan and be prepared for everything in life.' She tossed her purse to the side and stripped to her underwear. Pamn stood, wincing in the frigid room, yet maintaining her composure.
"Everything."
He observed with fascination, not in a sexual way, but more like one would be captivated by someone leaning too far out of a high window. She unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the ground. Swiftly, she slipped her underwear down her legs, kicking both items to the side.
He placed her on the red 'X' in front of the camera. "Turn around."
He stared at her for a long time. They all did. The eerie hum of the air conditioning dominated the space for what felt like an eternity until Monroe's face broke into a sly smile, a realization dawning on him. He walked to the far side of the room, leaving Pamn alone in the center. Awkwardly, she crossed her arms, attempting to cover herself. Shivering as the overhead softlight shined down on her.
He returned, carrying a large metal box. A metal barstool and black tarp stuck out of it. He stretched the tarp under her feet, smoothing everything with great deliberation. He placed the box off the tarp and rummaged through it. In one hand was a tube of paint, and in the other was a lens, which he carefully secured to the camera base. He returned to the box and tossed her a large kitchen knife, which she barely caught. Her icy fingers shivered around its hilt.
"Uh," she looked from the knife to the stool behind her. "What do you, I'm sorry, um, what do you want me to do?"
He didn't respond.
"I-"
He walked to her, making her sit on the stool, then moved behind the camera, taking a remote from his pocket. With one click, all lights turned off. Seconds later, two colored lights turned on. One an amber tone, the other a gold shade. They were rays of sunlight shot through a window on a warm afternoon. The camera clicked. Pamn's eyes flashed to a nearby computer screen. With every shot, a new image would appear there. She was covered head-to-toe in gold, a painting of a Greek goddess.
Monroe clicked his remote once more, and the place went black. Then, a blood-red spotlight replaced it.
He walked to her, a tube of paint in hand. She inhaled sharply as he squirted a large amount of red paint onto his palm. He stood in front of her, sliding his hand across her face. Then, standing behind her, he wiped the remaining red across her chest and onto her stomach.
Monroe grabbed the knife from her and stood back, admiring his work. Placing one hand on her shoulder, he stood over Pamn, sticking the blade between her slightly parted lips. She saw the knife and froze, fearful of slicing her tongue on the blade. It went between her teeth. Down into the soft hollow of her mouth.
Pamn's face. Eyes closed. A red angel. Beautiful.
Her pale, bleeding body leaned against the stool, an arm tangled in its rungs. The knife impaled into her stomach.
Monroe stood a few feet away. Behind him, the men and Conor stared, enraptured by her figure.
Monroe crouched into the viewfinder of his camera. Pamn's image reflected in the glass lens. He took a photo, and the shutter closed and opened on Pamn's body. The click was a startling change to the deathly quiet room.
"Look at me."
Pamn's eyes shot open as though waking from a dream.
The clicks continued. Consistent initially, it fell into irregular and staggered patterns, then frenetic.
Her eyes locked with Conor's—he was entranced.
Pamn hopped from the blackness of Monroe's studio entrance and into the street, giddy. Conor was right behind her.
Pamn held up a sample Polaroid from one of the many scenes. A fuzzy pink surface made the image look out of focus, but when one concentrates, the image becomes clear. They will realize they're looking at skin. They'll see a leg, an arm, and ribs protruding through the skin. Lips. A tongue. An amalgamation of odd angles that made up the dismembered and impaled woman. "You could say I…killed it."
"Bro."
"Bad?"
"Yeah."
She locked eyes with him, a bit surprised as his fingers entwined with hers.
"You hungry?"
"Sure."
The darkness of the night wrapped around them as he pulled her close. In the blink of an eye, they ate at and left the restaurant. His car sprung to life, a succession of streetlights, neon signs, and brightly illuminated billboards. Then they were back on a hill overlooking the city—just a few blocks away from her apartment. The hood of his car was still warm as she sat on it. The moon was full and perfectly luminous. Conor stood a few feet away, staring up at it.
"It's been a minute since I've just chilled like this."
Pamn yawned softly.
He looked at her, "Don't tell me you're tired."
"Nah, Nah," she rubbed her eyes, slightly embarrassed.
"Lemme bring you to your room."
"There's a 'no guys allowed' rule."
Conor scrunched his face, "What kinda sad dry-ass dyke runs your place?"
"I dunno," Pamn shrugged. "So we'll have to be quiet."
Conor looked down at Pamn. Aside from the moonlight coming through her window, the room was dark. She lay on her bed just as she did on the studio floor earlier that day. "I'm with you for it all. Till' the end."