Page 76 of A Beautiful Crime

Infuriated with myself I leave the bedroom, refusing to call it my own, and head out to explore what Constantine calls home.

Foregoing shoes my bare feet hit the cold marble floors with a soft thud. Holding the emerald silk robe closed, although it is already tied at the waist, my eyes take in everything before me.

His walls are painted a soft grey, so soft in fact they almost appear to be white. It creates a great contrast with the dark brown marble floors. Along the walls of the hall of the third floor, in which our rooms reside, several art pieces are hung on the wall, followed by pictures of himself with his family.

I shouldn’t be interested. I shouldn’t care. And yet I find myself more intrigued by the family portraits than the famous paintings.

As I stand before one portrait a deep ache flares inside my chest. And I realize as my mouth parts and a small whimper of pain releases I know what it is I’m feeling. Longing. Bittersweet aching longing.

In the portrait Constantine stands as a young boy between his mamma and papa. Even then, photographs have done him no justice. He’s nothing compared to the real thing, seen in actual flesh. His whisky eyes are soft and loving as he stares up at his mamma. His smile burns brighter than the sun. This is an angel before he had fallen. A boy before he became a man.

But it isn’t the vulnerability I see in Constantine, nor is it the love I see him wearing so proudly, that has me feeling longing.

It’s the way his papa and mamma are mirroring the same look back at him. Their smiles just as radiant. Their eyes pouring with love. The embrace of a mother’s warmth and the affection of a father’s touch.

I long to have what this young boy did.

I long to have a mamma who embraced me rather than shield me because of fear.

I long to have a papa who adored me rather than abused me.

I long. I long. I long.

My hand outstretches and my finger trembles as I go to trace the smile on each of their faces. But I snatch my hand away, as if I’ve been burned, when I realize what I’m doing. What I’m feeling.

If I am to live here, I can not, and I will not, allow Constantine to affect me anymore than he already has.

Stealing my spine I carry myself away from the portrait, fighting the urge to give a second glance, swallowing back the tears that threatened to come.

Descending the staircase I keep my gaze ahead. I allow my eyes to wander but never behind me.

His home is such a drastic contrast from papa’s. Perhaps because papa’s never once felt like a home, even when he had controlled the lens.

Papa had surrounded himself around his wealth. Displaying his greed with pride and yet always hungry for more.

And while you can see the luxurious life Constantine lives, his home is approachable.

His home, for the time being, doesn’t feel like a gilded cage.

I stand beneath the skylight, feeling the rays of the sun against my sinner’s skin hoping it will reach deep enough to cleanse my soul.

And I release a melancholic sigh knowing it never will.

Being burned by the light I try to seek comfort elsewhere.

But I come to a halt when I find a man who is a stranger standing before me in the living room, openly staring.

For it isn’t his regal looks that warrants a pause. The aristocratic nose and perfectly wavy chestnut hair. A face carved by Michaelangelo himself. It’s his eyes. Unfathomable as the depths of the ocean and as blue as its waters. If eyes are the windows to the soul this man before me has none.

Uneasiness unfurls in my stomach, causing me to take a step back of precaution.

The man stares at me blankly. And it’s downright unnerving.

His hollow eyes don’t leave mine as he says in a voice just as empty as his eyes, “Carina, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rico.”

I blink back at him, my hand flexing around the small opening of the satin robe. His eyes immediately follow the action. I wait for the lust to enter his eyes, even a flash of hunger from seeing the hints of ample flesh, but no. His eyes are just as vacant as before.

His eyes return back to mine and instead of trepidation from the emptiness I oddly find comfort. My shoulders ease as my hand rests at my side.

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