I‘m a “cleaner,” but not the kind who dusts and mops floors. Well ….not unless I wanted to get rid of evidence. For those not familiar with the term, “cleaner” is slang for someone, usually a member of a crime organization or a covert government agency, who disposes of a corpse after a hit. Well ….this hit was a blast!
As Emma Holt exits the cab, hired to find the truth, a soft whisper gently comes from her mouth, repeatedly saying; “people who often say ‘there are two sides to the story’ are liars.”
The summer drizzle falls gently on her face. As her patent leather knee boots start clicking along the dark cobblestoned streets of New York City, she notices what looks like her target. Emma’s blood is starting to pump fast as she gets near. This part excites her. Just like a writer knowing how he is going to end his novel. Like a perfectly fitted puzzle piece. Her long walk grows faster as her legs are fastened in by her fishnet stockings peaking through her slit skirt. She is closer to her prey.
Emma stands in the dark, the rain now pounding harder on the awning as a red neon sign is reflecting off her face into her almond shaped brown eyes. Then ….silence. She notices a reflection of herself in a shop window. Emma turns to see who was behind her. No one. All she can hear is her own breath. Tap…tap…tap…tap. The raindrops. And then he appears. He slowly walks her back against the wet brick wall. His mouth trails along slowly down her neck as his hand is controlling the back of her head by her hair. As they kiss. She slowly opens her eyes and whispers; “so when are you going to make your mark?”
With a slow smile. He replies by opening his blue eyes; “Not …just … yet” as he smirks back. Emma releases from the seductive hold, as their eyes are locked, and she calmly says; “Too bad. I’m making my mark, first.” POP.
It was a job, she kept convincing herself as tears rolled down her chiseled jawline. It was just a job. Emma found out there was a hit on her. She fell fast. He was too slow.
Trust ….and protect. Would you protect your lover if you knew your life was in peril? Would you allow yourself to let go, knowing the trust may not be mutual? Would you risk your life, for life? Or would you risk your life, to save another?
But most importantly, the question that kept lingering in Emma’s thoughts; “Should I burn the clothes like I burnt my blond wig? Or should I wash them?”
– Alexis Iacono
(Photos, hair, and makeup by Reba Vera)
About the author
I can sit down with Scholars. Stand up with Thugs. I can't do Epic shit with basic people.
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