Hello Strangers,

Long story short, I’m dabbling a little between blog sites, I tend to post more on my site over at blogger: http://aeryamorosity.blogspot.co.uk/   – Simply because personalising the blog there is easier.

So you may not hear from me here very often anymore – not that you did anyway. But you know where to find me now – bring your friends over too 🙂

Take Care,


Borderline Personality Disorder

There’s a parasite in my brain,

Like a mosquito,

It drinks away my sanity, humanity and hope.

So that I am left dry

Detached from what makes sense…

And left to question:

Is my personality only disordered?

Or is there some other part of me hidden

That makes me – me.

Waiting to be resurfaced when everything is reordered…?

…If it ever can be.


See my insanity works like this –

It is split into two

The first goes like this:

I’m happy, I am, with my whole soul

I’ll laugh and yesterdays sorrows

Won’t hinder my tomorrow

And I’ll dream as write, the thousands of

Bright sparks in my mind,

And I’ll applaud all my friends, for the

Wonderful, beautiful people they are,

And I’ll jitter and joke about every

Thought on my mind

But mind you…


I’m miserable. With tears in my eyes.

I’ll cry about last year’s sorrows,

And hope that there’s no tomorrow

As I dream about death and question all

The things I thought I was…

Because now I am blank,

Forsaken and


On why I’m even feeling this hollow.

And my friends they are, the worst people on earth,

Who only ever fail me with their ugly words.

And I am alone, with naught to say.


Because to say this is normal – is abnormal.

Especially when, without warning,

All this happens within hours.

Within a day: I am both happy and sad,

Not lightly or briefly,

But intensely and indefinitely.

I’m hot and I’m cold,

Clear and confused,

Poor in control

But rich in all that I feel.

But not why or how I come to feel.

And this is all insane.


My insanity goes on,

With more than just my mood,


The second goes like this:

I love and I hate and I loathe and I care,

But I don’t – not all the time,

Just when I feel fit, and you satisfy me,


This can take everything and nothing,

You’ll be my hero and savour

Wear a wreath on your head and act like the God

That I praise you to be, because you are

All that and more to me!

You’re like the sun I strive towards and the

Air – which an asthmatic could never overdose on

But know I will overdose on you and the addictive drug you’ve become.

And feel all my love because when I feel love

I feel it by its whole breadth and depth and

drowning, overwhelming, suffocating


But wait…


I could be infatuated but never truly in love

But it will feel so…


Don’t be fooled. I doubt it is

Even if I believe it is

Because I will promise you years and then give you days

And Suddenly-

I’m sick,

of you.


You – a cruel being, who is insufferable,

And you’re making me suffer;

Something, for which I’ve never asked

And your love,

My love, is too much for me to bare,

And I bare witness that you tried, but it will never be enough,

Because I feel nothing towards you and the sight

Of you, is like dust: dead and deviant

For my heart’s desire.

And it’s not you I desire… I never did.


But all this is fairly sane, as love itself

Is untamed. But the problem arises when you,


My heart will shatter, its broken shards all techni-coloured,

Illuminating my face with rays of reds and blues.

Black and white.

My estranged lover, you misunderstand:

I’m not telling you to go, but I can’t have you stay,

My actions show: I love you, but, my mouth tells you: I loathe you,

I need you to hug me and hold me, but please my dear,

Don’t touch me.

But I beg you, please love me,

Yet, listen, because I hate you.

So darling, don’t leave me.

I know I am insane.


See the bug in my brain is more than borderline insane.

He is in fact, completely inhumane,

He does worse than snatch my happiness away,

Instead he floods me in waves which

Engulfs me.

Becomes me.

Destroys me.

As every mood, emotion and feeling

Comes and Goes In Waves, With Unpredictable Rhythms

Of Which I Have No Control Over,

So they come and go, and they swallow me whole.

They call it Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder.

But really is really just my emotions?

Yes – they go from great to unpleasant,

From joy to grief

And love to hate,

But so do the people in my life,

They stay and they leave,

Care and they don’t.

And so do the dreams that I have,

They wander and wave,

I will and won’t…

So is it really just my emotions

Or should this curse simply be called:

Unstable Life Disorder…

The Root of All Flaws

[Dedicated To My Wonderful Friend Rhi]

As humans we are flawed. Some of us have minor things we may consider flaws within ourselves – we may irritate others with our vexatiously loud chewing; speak out of line and go on a tangent a tad too often, or even bite our nails to the point that strangers may wonder what incurable disease our fingers may have contracted.

For many of us, we have a whole plethora of flaws, and a reasonably large amount of us may not even be aware of any of them; – I am not one of those people. I envy those who can go so blithely unaware of their faults, as the saying goes: ‘Ignorance is bliss’. But I am one of those people who is painfully aware of everything I may do wrong that it haunts me at any given moment. I can be seated in class staring at my charming little doodles when it suddenly occurs to me that I am incredibly awkwardly clumsy. I could be preparing dinner and out of the blue the thought that I fumble with my words all the time strikes me. I may even be sleeping soundly when I abruptly wake up in distress so I can contemplate my inability to sit still.

As much as I may sound afflicted by these minor flaws however, I can actually tolerate them. It’s my bigger, personality flaws that really seem to sink my soul.

Recently in a conversation with a close friend, she absently mindedly brought up some of my flaws, then when I expressed how self conscious I was, now that she had materialised them in conversation, she told me it was okay because she could ‘deal with them’. The problem was that I was already aware of them… but some how her saying it to me hurt me more than I could’ve anticipated, and somehow made them more real and pressing.

There are two major flaws that I am aware of; the first being that I am: Uptight (as fuck – as the kids say these days), and the second being: I rant a-hell-of-a-lot.

But here’s the thing, like most personality traits that may be considered flaws, there are reasons, situations and various things that have encoded these traits into our being. I struggle to know whether I am simply making excuses or if I am genuinely right in believing that there are roots to my flaws, so I’ll explain what I believe may have caused me to contract these troublesome flaws of mine, and plant the seed for you to decide.

Ranting too much: The reason I may rant an awful lot now is because, as a child whenever I’d cry or get myself into trouble, I was expected not to cry, even when I was being yelled at or even had a spanking. I’ve never really understand why parents do this – surely, as annoying as crying is, it’s a sign of remorse, no? As well as that, being the youngest meant that no one really cared all too much what I thought about any given situation or had the time to ask what was on my mind. Anyhow, this meant that growing up, anytime I was upset, perturbed or angry, I kept it to myself. No matter how big it may have been. When I finally came across friends who encouraged me to share my woes, my feelings were suddenly validated and thus the overflow of words – which may be considered ‘ranting’ – was set free. And ever since I’ve probably never been able to stop, it’s my way of coping and allowing myself to realise that the emotions a I feel are real, and are meant to be felt. Yet I know that ranting in itself is an unfavourable quality.

Being up tight: Despite many factors coming into this particular one, some of the main reasons I feel are fairly obviously. As a child of a large family, calamity and conflict was always around the corner. I had nieces and nephews who were three or more years younger, thus sometimes I felt it was my duty to protect them all from it. I remember at the age of 10 or so the police coming over to our house, despite being so young I knew it was wrong for the children to have to see and get involved in all of it, so instead I distracted them with games and sweets. It was an innocent act at the time, but as I look back, I wonder if it was right for me to have to do such a thing in a household full of adults? Moreover, growing up I quickly had to learn that there was no space for a child’s naivety in such a house, whenever arguments arose and I had tried to voice my childlike opinion or let my young emotional self overwhelm me, I was quickly blamed, punished and pushed aside. There was no time for me behave like a child in a house full of adults. I had to grow up. And I haven’t been able to go back to being a child ever since.

So those are the roots I believed to have cause my flaws, and I must say, my flaws themselves, through much effort, are slowly being pulled from the ground but it may be years before I can properly untangle myself from this over grown garden of weeds.

But  what do you reckon? Am I making excuses? – Actually, in retrospect, maybe I don’t want to know… maybe, as all of us are flawed human beings, we shouldn’t have to explain ourselves to other people. And maybe… just maybe:

We shouldn’t find people who will ‘put up with’ and ‘deal with’ our flaws,

Perhaps, instead we should find  someone who will appreciate us despite our flaws….

– Love Aery x



The Tale Of The Bird & The Rose

-[Dedicated To Someone Who May Never Read This…]-


found a seed once, with the potential to grow into something beautiful. So she planted it in her garden green; she watered, loved and nurtured it so she could watch it grow from a bud to a rose. Until eventually its soft white petals bloomed amongst the nettle leaves and became something of awe in that distasteful garden of hers. But she found herself struggling to care for it as the brambles and cruel nettles prevented her from tending to it without wounding herself; soon enough she gave up. With her eyes clouded with sadness; frustrated and distraught at her failure, she plucked it from the ground and left it to rot.



had a bird once, who sang beautiful songs for whomever it met. The bird sang songs that lifted even the weariest of souls and though the bird loved singing for others, it never sang for him; still he treasured the bird so long as it made those he loved happy.  But deep down inside, he harboured a sadness that of which yearned to hear a song dedicated to him. So he buried his sorrow into dedicating his time to teaching his bird to sing to others.


When the twilight embraced the sky one evening, things changed:

He stumbled across a rose one day, wilted and dying, he picked it up and it pricked his fingers and threatened to pierce his skin further. He wasn’t frightened though. Instead, he took the flower and hung it by his window, and it remained there for days, watching the wonder and beauty of the world outside.

She came across a bird one day that sang lovely melodies to her. She began to fall in love with the bird and the efforts it offered to every individual it met. But she noticed that it sang only in the presence of others and never for itself. So she sang to it, and it listened to her songs of woe and joy but mostly it listened to the way she sang only and especially for it.


When the dawn kissed the sky one morning, they met:

The rose had dried into a timeless beauty, and he adored the rose in all its unconventional magnificence, thorns and all.

The bird had evolved and sang wonderful harmonies not only to others but to itself as well, and she never let a day pass, where she didn’t especially dedicate a song to it.

When he saw the bird, it began singing to him, all the new songs that the girl used to sing, and the sadness he drowned with himself, overflowed and flooded him. But he was finally able to smile because the bird sang for him too.

When she saw the rose, she finally saw it for all its beauty and saw the world, from the window it was once hung by. It was then, that the darkness was lifted from her eyes and she appreciated the rose for all that it was and all that it suffered amongst the weeds and nettles that it grew in.

The two of them, thereafter, indulged in days filled with sweet songs that enlightened both their souls and gardens so rich in beauty it was near impossible to ever see different again…



Awful painting by yours truly 🙂

…The End…

Pursuing the Arts

The University of Arts London (AKA: UAL), came to my college recently and spoke to a group of Fine Art and Photography (me) students. p

-And I hate them! Why? Because they have completely destroyed the (almost) serene calm and (nearly) perfect balance I had created in my life!

And now they’ve left me to stress and sob over whatever remains left of it.


Allow me to explain…

Prior to now, I had not planned to go Uni; unless it was to study psychology. However, upon studying AS psychology I quickly came to learn that this subject just wasn’t for me. Although I love connecting with, analysing and understanding people and the way their mind and behaviour works, psychology requires too much memorisation and not enough of the expression, creativity and freedom I yearn for. To be frank, I already had a hunch psychology wasn’t for me, there are seldom subjects that I thoroughly ever enjoyed: Media which I studied at GCSE level, and Photography which I excelled at within my Fine Art GCSE and continue to display a passion for right now as I study it as a single subject at A-Level.

Since Psychology was no longer a contender, Uni ceased to be an option for me any long. I mean, I didn’t know what else I would study. I didn’t see the point in studying ‘Useless’ subjects like art and film. because getting a degree in them doesn’t entail securing a career involving them. More than that, they aren’t viewed as very respectable subjects. Especially Photography. Most people believe that if you point a camera and take a pretty picture you’re officially classified as a photographer – Which in this day and age is pretty standard – annoyingly.

So my plans for post-college were merely to get experience and simply get a job and work my ass off; probably via an apprenticeship. Simple enough.

But No. UAL had to come and ruin that for me. They had to come and make me question everything. Seeing their facilities and all these images of dedicated students struck a chord with me. It Inspired Me. I mean it was absurd that there was even a whole University – let alone the largest one in Europe – dedicated to ‘Useless’ subjects. It was insane. They were so serious and enthusiastic about it, about ‘Useless’ subjects. Did they even realise how ‘Useless’ what they were teaching was? Did I even realise how beautiful it was, to see people care so much about what I love? – Probably not, at least not consciously; not even when I signed up for their spring school.

Not even when I happened to stumble across one of their sites in London today while on my very own photography shoot. (I wonder now, if it were some sort of sign?)

To be honest, I think it only internalised when I found myself aimlessly exploring their website. Seeing the amazing photography work their students created… and I sat there thinking:

This is what I want to do with my life…

Photography – not the take a camera and capture some random aesthetics shit, that you and I, and the whole contemporary world, knows it as. No, I want to invest myself into a photography where I take powerful, meaningful, introspective images: ones that tell stories and depict lives that we would never otherwise understand or imagine; with beautiful and haunting abstract images. This is what I’ve always wanted to do.

Between you and me, I, like many others am a victim of Sexual abuse. And despite finally accepting and overcoming it (after many, many, many years), I had decided in my head that I was going to conquer it completely some day… using photography. In my head I knew that in the future, using a camera and a great deal of work, I was going to embark on an emotionally-challenging project about sexual abuse and past traumas. Somehow I was going to attempt to illustrate what kind of devastating effects it has and unravel the stories of many victims like me via images. And this would not only be my way of growing past it, but also my message to the world. However little the audience may be, someone would have seen my work and taken something, anything, from it. This is what I wanted.

And I decided this back when I did the photography segment of my art work… which was based around identity. At the time, it was too vast a subject to even bring up in the rather juvenile GCSE setting. So I kept it in mind.

And have ever since.

So I suppose, photography has been a deep ambition of mine for a long time now. And seeing the work of the UAL students resurfaced this spark in me. I crave the opportunities it offers me.

Yet my biggest problem remains:

The tuition fees for a subject that is viewed as ‘Useless

It’d be one thing if I simply studied a subject that no one cares about. It’s another thing entirely, to pay to study a subject that no one cares about. My family are so sceptical of pursuing the creative arts and fear that it will get me nowhere. Honestly, I fear the same too. But then to pay for a subject that may not assist me in life at all; it’s like buying a million dollar vintage vase and then placing it in storage for eternity. A complete waste.

However, recently I visited the William Morris Gallery near my college. To my surprised, what hit me more than the pretty things on display dedicated to this man, was William Morris himself. From the gallery I learned of man who was brought up in wealthy environment, expected to pursue a secure practise for his future. Instead, he defied all odds and chased the arts instead, becoming a successful artist, interior designer and so much more. The more I read about him, the more my heart sobbed and my appreciation for all that is beautiful in art transpired.

When I first debated about attending UAL, William Morris did come to mind. My heart told me to have the same courage he did and do as he did. But my mind warned me that he and I are not the same and I am not born of wealth like he was.

Thus the dilemma still remains and I feel a huge sadness burden my heart.


I’ve suddenly realised how poetic my writing has become, I don’t know what’s happening. I guess this is where I end this post because I honestly have no idea how to end it. I just felt I needed to digest and get all this off my chest.

So I’ll just leave you with something William Morris said that was rather quite beautiful:


“My Man Matty”

This was inspired by Raymond Carver’s Short Cuts

Mathew was only twenty-one but he thought of himself as a man. Mathew worked most days part time as IT support for a growing finial business in central London. This decent job paid for his current new apartment and fresh independence. He also had a girlfriend, Alex. They were both still in education but thought themselves to be rather mature and serious about their relationship. When he wasn’t working or doing essays, he was with his friends. They would often come to his apartment and drink beer and yell profanities as they watched football match in his small living room.

“That’s a red card for sure,” Chris said shaking his head unimpressed.

“Bloody hell, what’s he doing?” Mathew’s friend – Darren – asked annoyed. He got up from his seat and paced around the room. Mathew sat in the centre of the sofa, watching his friends as they absorbed the football match on the TV. Darren threw his e­­mpty beer can at Mathew’s head and huffed in annoyance. “Get your girl to give me another mate,” Darren begged.

“Tell her yourself man,” Mathew said as he turned back and gave his best effort to be act interested in the match. Darren looked uncertainly to the kitchen door and then back at Mathew.

“You tell her man, she’s your bird ain’t she?” Darren challenged. “Because if not, I’ll claim her,” he grinned.

“You’re so wasted,” Mathew laughed, he then also looked to the kitchen door, he could hear his girlfriend shuffling and preparing the pizza he had asked her to cook earlier that day. “Alex!” He called out, the noise in the kitchen settled. “Alex bring another round of beers in already,” he said. Alex then walked in with a tray full of beverages for the boys which she placed on a table crowded by empty cans and crisp packets. None of the boys noticed of her. Mathew then stepped out of the circle of football fanatics to be with his girlfriend. He whispered a quiet ‘thanks’ into his girlfriend’s ear before he turned back to his friends. “Alex make some pizza for us too,” He said as his friends all jeered at the prospect of food.

“All meat right?” Alex asked.

“You’re lucky your chick is hot Matt, because she asks bloody dumb questions!” Chris laughed and all the boys wolf whistled and hooted. Alex shook her head dismissively and walked back to the kitchen. Mathew watched her walk away and then said: “what do you expect – she’s only a girl,”


The next Sunday evening Mathew and Alex set about preparing for a dinner party that Alex had planned for her friends. As Alex polished the cutlery, Mathew cooked; set the table; stitched the detail in Alex’s evening gown and carefully placed a vase of flowers at the table. He admired his work silently as he stood by the door. He was clandestinely proud of his efforts.

That night all of Alex’s close friends came by and spent the evening dining and drinking. Mathew sat in his room reading the works of Charlotte Bronte, but he could hear the giggles and whispers of the ladies’ talk knocking on his door. He put his book down and turned to the door. Then he changed his mind and decided to go to bed. He stepped into his bed and looked at the celling… he thought he heard someone mention his name. His gaze drifted to the door. He blinked and then rolled over and tried to sleep. Finally he gave in and walked over to the door, he pressed his ear against the door; everything was a muffled blur. There was no helping it now, he opened the door ajar and listened.

“This mousse is an absolute delight,” one voice exclaimed.

“The flowers are beautiful too, oh Alex you have such wonderful eye for these things,”

“Her dress too! It’s lovely, I love the detail at the hem, stitched it yourself didn’t you?”

Mathew smiled, he smiled quietly and shyly and bit his fingers in a satisfied embarrassment. Suddenly, he heard Alex clear her throat, “Ah yes, I did actually, I’m glad you like it!” She said. Mathew frowned. His fingers tapped at the doorknob as he heard her go on: “It was nothing really,” and all the girls retorted by laughing at her humble response. Mathew slammed the door shut, and wished he had gone to bed after all. He grabbed the bottle of whisky on his desk and poured himself a glass; downed the whole glass in one and then went for the door.



“I can’t believe what you did!” Mathew hissed, as he tapped nervously on the kitchen counter. Alex peered at him from behind the fridge door.

“Babe, you’re stressing over nothing, everyone’s probably forgotten!” she reassured him. He looked at his fingers and watched as they tapped rhythmically on the surface.

“They’ll think I’m a joke,” He mumbled. “I can already hear them laughing,”

“Look babe,” Alex shut the fridge door, “We were all very drunk; too drunk. I didn’t realise when I was taking the video of you that… well, that doesn’t matter; everyone will just assume that you were too drunk to realise, its fine babe,” she then walked towards him, and reached up to his face to kiss him but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mathew’s fingers paused and tensed.

“We’re here!” Darren yelled from the other side of the door, Alex glanced at Mathew as he anxiously watched the door. Comfortingly, she squeezed his shoulder before opening the door. “Hey, Alex where’s Matt?” Darren asked as the rest of his friends swarmed in and took their place on the sofa. Darren looked over at Matthew and smirked. “Well, well if it isn’t my man Matty!” He said with open arms, Mathew glared at him. “Or should I say… girl?” he mocked.

“Please don’t Darren, Matt’s not feeling well today; hung-over from yesterday actually,” Alex said.

“Aw, poor bastard… cross dressing is really tiring huh?” Darren winked, Mathew swallowed and clenched his fist, he could feel the blood drain from his face as he watched Darren laugh and walk towards the boys; walk away…The noise around him blurred and he could only hear the thumping of his heart. He could hear his girlfriend’s muffled voice asking if he was okay, constantly trying to assure him. He could hear Darren walking further away. He could feel his blood rush to his fist and he felt himself raise his first and the way it cut the air and how it delivered a violent blow…


Alex was stunned, shocked and horrified; both by the blood and Mathew. The room was quiet, not even the sound of commentator celebrating a goal on the TV could spur any movement. All eyes looked from Mathew to Alex… who lay dazed on the floor.

“Well,” Darren coughed, “I suppose this is what happens when the woman doesn’t stay in the kitchen….”




The Act of Murder

This is my horrible attempt of an opening chapter for a mystery/crime story – Enjoy!


Her voice resonated throughout the quiet dimly lit room of men sat at the edge of their seats, before a loud roar of applause cut through the silence and showered Cara Reinsworth; her rouge lips curved into a smile. The air was filled with the desire of the many men seated before her, all admiring the the way her velvet red dress hugged her figure so tightly and the manner in which her golden hair enticed them in the same way their own filthy golden wealth did to them.

As she walked off the stage many eyes continued to follow her; all like wolves hidden in the shadows of the light, preying on little red riding hood. But Cara preferred her own twist on the tale. As she gracefully made her way down the stairs her eyes surveyed the room for an interesting night, she savoured the hungry eyes that beckoned for her attention and begged her to bless them in early hours of the morning. She relished the prospect that so many filthy rich men desired her pure presence and that within minutes she’d have them at her feet and their money between her fingers. Yet she knew that tonight like many others, she had little control over the cast of this story; she only had a role to play and one job at hand.

Thomas sat there, patiently. The gangsters, dirty tricksters and dishonest scammers all surrounded him, gawking at her; he was practically invisible and perfectly integrated into the shady scene. The night was young but smoke clouded the room; glasses were being filled and hushed secrets of racketeering floated amongst the heavy waves of drunken laughter and yelling. Those who were not huddled suspiciously together were seated and captivated – not by her beautiful voice but her tempting lips. He ran his fingers around the rim of the bottle as he vigilantly observed her. He was about to play a risky game, one he knew was reigning champion at but one mistake and that title would be snatched away within seconds. The game was simple enough – capture the queen however the there was a whole chequered field stretched out before him. Every move was vital. She sang her last note and sauntered down the stairs, and glanced around the room. This was Thomas’s cue; he had one shot to initiate the game. He diverted his eyes to the seat opposite him and placed his hat across the table and waited. He didn’t look up, not even when the sound of her tapping red heels approached him, not even when her fingers curled over the gold bars of the chair. His hands gripped the cold glass of the empty bottle and her voice finally reached out to him.

“Hey there handsome,” He looked up and raised his brow,

“I was wondering when you’d come around,” he said coolly, gesturing to the seat opposite him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, what did you think of the show?” She asked as she sat down and fluttered her eye lashes at him. The game had begun and just as he had anticipated she was already advancing the field, just as prepared to invade and attack as he was.

“Amazing,” he answered simply, she shifted in her seat and tilted her head. She was bored of hearing all the same things but her performance had not yet ended and her funds was better still when it was tainted by her own corrupt lies and cheats.

“Why thank you,” she giggled, just as she had rehearsed many times before.

“But your voice,” he said as she stirred her drink delicately in her cup, “It really is beautiful,”

“Oh you’re too sweet,” she smiled, quickly getting fed up of the conversation.

“How about we take this somewhere private,” He suggested tactfully sensing her irritated mood and placing his playing piece across the board.

“Why of course! I have a great hotel room specially reserved for you….” Cara drifted off…

“My name is Eddie, Eddie Hills,” Thomas said nonchalantly.

Thomas watched cautiously as Cara floated around the room, wisps of her curly blond hair hanging behind her, the hotel room was lit with candles and the busy, chattering city was muffled by the quiet of the room. She walked behind him and ran her hands up his back and let them waver on his shoulders, before she whispered in his ear, “We both know why we’re here,” she started, “I know what you want and I’ll be happy to give it you at a price,”

“You deserve nothing less,”

“Oh I know but I need to know I can trust you,”

“Whatever it takes,” he said, knowing he was getting closer to the trophy, he subtly reached into his pocket,

“Tell me something important, oh I don’t know… tell me about where you get your goods?”

“My goods?” Thomas questioned.

“Don’t play dumb with me Eddie, we’re both know you’ve got the best business in town next to Henry and his band, so just tell me and I’ll know I can trust you and we can start enjoying the night already,”

“And why would a lady like you want to know such things?” Thomas could feel he was on the verge of attaining what he had been waiting for the whole night. The last piece of information. The confession he had been after all along.

“I told you, just as something to make sure you pay me fairly,”

“Hah,” Thomas mused, “Maybe I could double the price, triple it even, all I need is a little honesty to seal the deal, perhaps even an alliance, you’re a beautifully smart woman… so tell me what you really do ” Thomas tempted. Cara smirked, she was indeed tempted, and this was something new. But she dithered at the offer, Thomas sensed this and immediately knew he had to act. He suavely lifted her chin gently to meet his eyes; two could play at that game.

And in that moment the blue of the ocean met with the deep green of the forest and both absorbed each other. Cara was taken aback. She was sent here to meet what was meant to be a foul rich old geezer who’d have nothing but money and women on his sleazy mind. Instead however, the empty chair and that signal came from dapper man with weary but honest green eyes and a dashingly handsome face. His dark blue attire made him look a million dollars and his charisma could have won him a million more. And all of this was abruptly realised within sudden seconds for Cara, for unlike others he seemed far more aware and slick with his moves. Perhaps this was why he was so good, perhaps this is how he gets his goods? That had to be it. But Cara suddenly realised who she was really playing with-

A scream shattered the silence and ricocheted through the hotel and echoed through the night. Both Thomas and Cara found themselves immobile – the scream had come from next-door. They both exchanged a confused expression; they both knew that voice as familiar. Cara had heard it over the phone and Thomas had only heard it hours earlier…. – They both rushed out the room and stood at the door adjacent to their own. Thomas knocked on the door but just as quickly as the silence had fleeted it returned again. Impatiently, he kicked in the door and stumbled into the cold room. Instantly, both Cara and Thomas was stuck by the distinct metallic smell of blood. A man who lay on the floor, eyes rolled back, lifeless.

Eddie Hills was dead.

The air that late December was thick with booze and nicotine and death and perhaps even chemistry. A tiny spark had ignited a flame between two souls that vanished from the scene that night. When Thomas turned back Cara was nowhere to be seen; confused by the happenings of that night he replayed the tape that was hidden in his pocket and listen to her voice. He was so close yet so far; and now with Eddie dead he seemed even further. However he knew he’d see her again because the story, the game, the crime and the capture; all had to go on for both of them. But the roles they play were yet to be determined…