dossier.

if he were ever vulnerable enough to tell the truth perhaps he would say : i love fire ! and you , dear reader , then might notice how the crackle of kindling or the spark of a match makes something fade from his face . . . ( his hands twitch compulsively ) ( his imagination runs wild ) . and perhaps he would tell you how , as a teenager — just a silly teenager — , he might satisfy his cravings in gravel fields and empty buildings , only burning junk mail until — well , one can be careless , and a pile can grow too larger. perhaps he left a building scorched one day in november ( and he pretended the smoke was just from his breath , from the cold — because what he did was wrong , of course , and it didn't even feel that good ). he was only a teenager after all ; we all make silly mistakes when we're young ; we're lucky to come out of it alive .

observant viewers might notice that — off the pitch , of course ! — he's a " fidgeter " — he has his little toy , something to flick on and off and on and off to relax him and calm his mind . . . 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐄 is a mellow guy , but everyone gets stressed ( and everyone has their own way to relieve stress , don't they ? one ought not to judge ) . though : he is smart enough to know that his release can often cause more problems than it is a solution —— . as with most things : it's a cycle . pressure , release , pressure , release . but there won't ever be any consequences . 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐄 : he's too practiced for that . he clicks his lighter and feels the dulled sting on his calloused fingertips .

there — have never been any consequences —

he recalls how :

his precious lighter cracked under the
soles of his sneakers : like him, blackened .
he was careless — too careless — that night .
( the tightness in his chest , from which he
usually found relief , is choking him . smoke
tendrils climbed into his lungs —— )

that night he was stupid . he was
too desperate — to ——————
he didn’t notice the m————
the building wasn’t —————

he gasps for air . clutches his neck .

soot under his nails left crescents in his
skin . he grasped for air , running ( that’s
the worst part of all that panic !
he didn’t get to watch ! )

but as much as he wanted —
( he takes a heavy breath — )
he couldn’t witness his handiwork .
he had to run . (black tears — ) because
oh god — oh god ——————
someone was in the building when
it was 𝐁 𝐔 𝐑 𝐍 𝐄 𝐃 𝐓 𝐎 𝐓 𝐇 𝐄 𝐆 𝐑 𝐎 𝐔 𝐍 𝐃 !

𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 ?

dear reader , you may not see the turmoil inside of 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐄 — he won't allow it but —— in every quiet moment ( I KILLED A MAN I KILLED A MAN I KILLED A MAN ) it interrupts him . and does he think kindness or politeness or gentleness to others ( imagined / real ) will absolve him of what he's done ?

( a voice is booming in his head , mocking : you think you can distract yourself ? when you can't even meet the mirror's hollow eyes . ) he keeps dreaming of That Night , over and over and again and again . he wakes up with a hand around his desiccated throat , gasping ———

is this mimicry ? as if that man would have posed like this , a blackened mannequin , ( does skin melt like plastic ? in his nightmares it does )

awake or asleep — he can't even bring himself to reach into his pocket , to caress the finger-worn metal to . . . . click . . . . but without it , he feels strange : lonely . alone with his thoughts ( I KILLED A MAN ) will he admit that thought itself ( I KILLED A MAN ) gets interrupted , too ? no . hah . but it does : panoramic whispers : ( i think i would do it again ) .

it's strange to be in a mood to hear that chorus of helpless cries .

. . .

it's been years—————
.
.
.

years since that moment. oh ! that day , that cold december day that inspired a deeper feeling than he's ever felt before . what the feeling is , he can't name . he just wants to taste it again .

because if he were to tell the truth , he would admit that perhaps — perhaps — his precious routine is leaving some to be desired . ( as like now : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐄 lies above his covers ; the lighter clicks a familiar rhythm — that is , no rhythm at all , just on , off , on off on , scorching nails and feeling a pleasant no-thing against his finger tips. click . click . click . click . )

empty buildings no longer hit the spot , leaving him craving , gnawing on his own singed knuckles . his life is more in the public eye than ever : the gilded cage , and his private time comes so rarely : he can hardly get away with teasing his fingertips with a flame !

in his dark eyes , there's a warning ; behind his pleasantly blank expression there's a slow , smoldering thing . yes : under all his cheerful grins and stellar plays , 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐄 is growing into a desperate man .