Page 8 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

Another piece depicted a family; a mother holding a baby, as a man held her. An imagine that we see every day in most homes. A depiction of life as we know it. But this wasn’t like any family I’d ever seen before. Their eyes shone back at me, inky black, like pieces of coal. No feeling or emotion lay behind them, and their faces were frozen into a harsh, unfeeling glare. They weren’t a loving family. They were an illusion. Playing a part for the world, but they were dead inside. Was this how the artist saw his own family?

Another section pulled my gaze away from the zombie family. It was a book with the pages torn out, falling and scattering onto the ground. The words on the pages had been replaced with droplets of blood, splatters on some. But one page had clear, bold words written on it. ‘The Death of freedom of speech’. Knowing that books were being banned in parts of the world, books that told a story about those that didn’t always have a voice, books that elevated their plight, added to the tragedy of the statement on that page. People were losing their voice, and it wasn’t right.

Another piece of the heart had music notes held behind the bars of a prison cell. A nod to the censorship that was akin to the books on the previous shattered piece.

And one had the image of a young boy, with his mouth taped shut. His eyes bulged in fear as tears streamed down his dirty cheeks, cheeks that were puffed out like he was trying to scream, but he couldn’t make a sound, and no one was listening. A childhood of fear that no child should ever experience. That one hit me the hardest.

There was so much to absorb from this single piece of art. It was hauntingly beautiful, and I was stunned into an awe-inspired silence. I could have studied this wall all night and still walked away without absorbing every fragment of its splintered story.

I took a photo of the artwork as a whole, then moved closer to photograph each section because it was captivating and held so much meaning. Each image deserved to be seen and studied. And I wanted time to look at it again myself when the hustle and bustle of the evening had died down. When I was alone in my home and could appreciate it for what it truly was. A glimpse into a world of ugly truths.

“He always nails it,” a deep voice cut through my reverie as I was crouching to snap a section depicting a child on his knees, eyes closed, praying to a sky that had the words ‘I see humans but no humanity’ written in the rainy, grey clouds.

I stood up and turned to find a skinny young man in a black suit with a lanyard similar to mine standing behind me, smiling smugly. I was a little taller than him, and from the way he tried to hide his frown as that fact became clear when I stood up, I could tell he didn’t like it. He smoothed his hand over his over-gelled, slicked-back dark hair, and made an unpleasant sound as he cleared his throat and regarded the graffiti wall behind us.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I stated, still stunned in admiration of the complexity of the art, the images, the messages they conveyed, and because I needed something to say. I felt so damn awkward. I’d have preferred to get through the night without having to make stilted small talk. But here we were.

“You never will see anything like this,” he replied, a haughty proudness in his response as he glanced from me to the wall of art and back again. “S.K.A.M. is a unique talent. There’s no one like him.”

“S.K.A.M.?” I questioned, my brow furrowed, and he pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the wall.

“That’s his tag name. S.K.A.M. No one knows his real name, who he is, or what S.K.A.M. stands for. He’s never revealed it. But his pieces are always the highlight of our shows. He’s very sought after. We’re lucky he’s doing a live performance in our courtyard tonight at nine o’clock. He doesn’t often appear in person. And I promise you, you really don’t want to miss it, Miss...” He peered down at my lanyard to try and read my name, but when he saw it only said Press, he cleared his throat again and thrust his arm out towards me. “I’m so sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Lloyd Fairwell. I’m the head curator here at The Void.”

I took his outstretched hand to shake it. Lloyd appeared to be one of those men who was agreeable at surface level, but I got the feeling my ears would burn if I walked away now. He seemed to have an edge, like he was someone I wouldn’t want to make an enemy of. I felt it in the way he peered around the room, shaking my hand, but with one eye on what was going on around him. Like he needed to know everything, and didn’t want to miss out. If the opportunity came along to speak to someone more influential or prettier, he’d probably take it.

“Oh, wow,” I replied, slowly removing my hand from his grasp and discreetly wiping the clamminess he’d left on my palm down the side of my dress. “I’m excited to witness the artist at work later, creating a bespoke piece. And I’m glad I found you, too. I would love to get your thoughts on the evening, and maybe a few quotes for our readers?”

He smiled wide, but his eyes were empty, void of emotion as he regarded me and asked, “And you are?”

“Emma. Emma Belmont. I’m from the Merivale Echo.”

He took a cautious step back after I’d announced who I was. A clear indication he wasn’t a fan of our newspaper.

“Ah. You’re the one they sent in his place,” he said with a hint of suspicion, his eyes narrowed as he regarded me cautiously.

“I was Mr. Gold’s plus one, yes.” I was determined to maintain my confidence; despite the look he was giving me. “But he was turned away at the door.” I figured I might as well be truthful. There was no point sugarcoating it.

“Plus one?” Lloyd frowned and shook his head. “He wasn’t given the option to bring a plus one. It was clearly explained to Mr. Gold, if he wanted to cover this event, he had to send another representative from his... organisation.” He leaned a little closer to me, and in a hushed tone, he added, “Our director is not Mr. Gold’s biggest fan. But I’m sure you know all about that.”

I didn’t. But I nodded like I understood, and he went on, “Gold can’t help himself. He always wants an in whenever the trio are in attendance at an event.” He tilted his head, gesturing towards a group of immaculately dressed and very intimidating men, standing in the far corner of the gallery, holding their drinks and holding court. They were deep in conversation with each other as the rest of the gallery gave them furtive looks and glances that showed how revered they were. It was clear to me then that everyone here wished they were standing in that circle. Why? I had no idea.

“I don’t know who they are,” I stated, and Lloyd’s brow hit his hairline.

“You don’t know the trio?” He paused a little too dramatically for my liking, but I went along with his theatrics, appearing to hang on his every word as he said, “Alex Kingston, Ethan Moore, and Tobey Falstead are three of the most influential men in this room. Probably in the whole city. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them, being an esteemed reporter.”

I didn’t want to tell him I wasn’t a reporter yet, just the assistant that got roped into being Mr. Gold’s lackey when he clearly knew he wasn’t getting in tonight.

God, I hated that man.

Even with the carrot dangling on a stick, promising that I might get a promotion from this, he still managed to make me feel like a prize fool. I wished I could have done some bloody research for this. I dreaded to think what Lloyd thought of me. But if he did think I was a hopeless reporter, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared at the trio in admiration as he regaled me with the merits of each one.

I stared at the trio too. There was a shorter man with blond hair, who had a smile permanently etched on his face as he laughed along with his friends.

Next to him stood a brown-haired man, who was nodding and hanging on the groups every word, talking occasionally, but he seemed happier to let the others have the floor.

And then, there was the tallest one. A dark-haired man, who was the best-looking of the group. In fact, he was hands down the most handsome man in this room. His jet-black hair was styled to perfection, his jaw chiselled, and his cheekbones defined. He looked like he’d stepped right out of the pages of GQ Magazine, with his tanned skin and muscular build, all perfectly wrapped in a designer suit. And don’t get me started on the hint of a neck tattoo that was just above his shirt collar. He was the kind of man you couldn’t stop staring at from across a crowded room. But I knew, if I was in front of him, I’d probably struggle to look him in the eye. I’d struggle to speak, too, and no doubt say something wildly inappropriate despite myself. Sometimes, my brain functioned a second or two behind my mouth.

Mr. GQ had an air about him, too. He didn’t smile like the blond, or nod along like the brunette. He stood tall and controlled the conversation, from what I could tell. He seemed like the master of the group. The conductor of the trio.