Hell's Actor-Chapter 229 - 75 Degrees Celsius

"I hate The Photographer."

It was not the first time Director Groux had to hear that sentence. The tone, the inflection, the volume, and the spirit were no different.

It was a bored voice.

A lazy voice.

The Photographer’s voice.

He never entertained him on this subject, but today, the good director was intrigued.

He wanted to know... what a genius saw.

He returned the listless gaze with a questioning one.

"Why?" he asked.

Averie threw up his hands. "I don’t know."

But he did know.

At least, that’s what the director thought. He expected that putting those feelings into words must have seemed banal to someone with Averie’s propensity. It must have been... a waste of time.

But Averie had to try; he needed to. He didn’t like wasting a chance to bitch.

"He is so frustrating," he said with a sigh.

Behind those closed lids, he could already see him.

"It doesn’t allow for a lot of... acting."

The director nodded, half in acknowledgement and half in confusion. "Wasn’t Asmodeus Binsfeld the same?"

Averie didn’t know that the man had seen BSPH.

Or maybe, he did know. Had he perhaps forgotten, like so many other things recently?

"No."

He waved a pale finger. It looked thin like a twig. Around the nails, he could still feel the burning sensation he had endured from washing his hands too roughly.

It wasn’t because he wanted to burn his fingertips. No, he hadn’t committed a crime yet.

But that ’yet’ was ever present, and he didn’t even know why.

It was the ink that truly left a mark, and no matter how many pens he changed, the issue never went away.

He hated it. His portrayals needed dazzling. The Photographer—he didn’t care about as much. But The Lady? Oh, he cared about her more than any other role prior.

The Photographer could carry one or two signs of clumsiness, but The Lady needed to be perfect.

"He was different," Averie continued, ignoring his itchy crotch. "Asmodeus was a man of few words, but he showed his intentions through detailed actions. Lust was his creed."

But that wasn’t the case for The Photographer.

"There’s barely anything to act out. There are no quips, no bursts of emotions, and no vices. He is just there, going along with the flow."

The director’s eyes darted from one end to the other. "That’s what— That’s how he is supposed to be. That’s not a problem."

"I never said it’s a problem."

The chirping of the birds interrupted him massively, and Averie wondered if they were planning to drop surprises in his tea.

"But it’s still a boring role. I feel like an inbred goldfish being introduced to its new school."

Averie smirked. He thought it was a good pun.

On the other hand, the director simply didn’t get it.

Averie could almost see his first role in this new world.

"BSPH had a color and a scent—black and coffee. What’s the scent of Lady Ethereal?"

"I thought you’d have some ideas, considering—"

"I have my perceptions. I am asking for yours."

That was not to the director’s liking. After all, it was a question even he struggled with.

"It’s like one of those cheap colognes that has a more unique scent than anything expensive."

Averie gave it a second of thought—no more, no less—and shook his head.

"No."

His voice sounded a bit husky.

"It’s something different. It’s—"

’An idea.’

Yes, that was all it was. That was everything it was.

He had no idea what it smelled like, and the color always changed.

But if he had to describe Lady Ethereal in one single word, it would either be portrait or pendulum.

He didn’t know why, but antiques suited this neon world better than anything modern.

"Tell me the real reason." The director looked solemn in that moment. "Why do you really hate The Photographer?"

It wasn’t that hard a question.

"It’s easy." It was a reluctant reply. "It’s easy to put myself in his shoes. It feels so natural—wearing his skin."

Because he could imagine it too perfectly.

He could relate... with the man who chose to chase after The Lady.

"You should have chosen someone else for the role."

Director Groux inhaled the cold air too enthusiastically. It burned his nostrils. It stung, and it hurt.

"Who?" he asked.

"Anyone but me."

Those memories were fun for Averie. They seemed to highlight the little things that went into filmmaking.

He swept a gaze across the theater. They—whoever they were—looked engrossed.

There was magic in the film—the colors, the sounds, and the performances.

Even Joséphine Petit couldn’t divert her attention from The Photographer, whose—frankly—Averie wasn’t a fan of.

It was too passive a character in his eyes.

’Patience,’ he told himself.

But Charles didn’t seem to give a damn.

He boiled a pot of hot water and dumped one of the canned fish in it, his attention entirely on the sink full of vomit.

It was all so expensive. He would have preferred to puke out canned food and consume the good stuff. If he could, he would’ve scooped it up. But even he had standards... or did he?

He was starting to wonder about it, these days. His gaze—drifting towards the fridge picture—indicated a question.

The audience didn’t need to be full of psychologists to understand it. It was a very simple question.

Why?

The light in those eyes dimmed.

Why?

It was almost telepathic.

Impressive couldn’t even begin to describe him, and the framing of the shot couldn’t have been more perfect.

It was an odd sensation. She was his muse previously, but now, Marianne felt like a statue of ash. Perhaps she suited her garden better than he ever imagined.

There was—despite his usual stoicism—a sense of sadness.

He had lost something.

That childlike sorrow was but a glimmer in his eyes.

He was lost, once again.

So he scooped what he had lost.

He added what he had removed.

And it all boiled—at 75 degrees Celsius.