Darkness is only a sunset away; the magical glow of twilight streams through the windows, warming the tiny posh loft tucked away in the east end of the city. The small space serving as an art gallery, appears untouched by the coldness that is the mainstream of the business world of Metropolis; failing to be penetrated by the bitter chill which blows through the city.
Despite the high prices her art typically collects, the artist that inhabits this space remains humble, not allowing her self to be consumed by the sharks that swim just outside her door. Even by appearance it is obvious she seems to want to disappear into the background, hiding her unquestionable beauty behind square glasses and a loose fitting peasant blouse.
Smiling coyly, she directs an older couple around her gallery.
"This piece might add the dimension you're looking for," she suggests, pointing to one of her earliest works.
"It's beautiful," the woman gushes, grabbing her husband's hand, closing in on the painting.
"Yes, it certainly is," the man begins, crossing his arms in front of him. "Of course, I always believed an artist should have more than three colors in their palette."
He turns, away, impressed more with his own words than anything showcased by Audrey's hands.
His words stinging her, she caresses the frame of the piece, as though consoling a bruised child, yet she is not so easily broken. A man such as him will never be able to hurt her.
"Yes, well, you have to make a connection," she begins, quite sure someone like him is incapable of feeling the required emotions for her art. "If you don't feel it immediately, chances are you never will."
Anxious to get this impossible sell over with, she subtly directs them towards the south wall conveniently located near the door. Drawing in her breath to begin her final pitch, she's stopped quickly by the sight of the man staring at a tiny painting hidden in the shadows near the garden terrace.
The look on Audrey's face causes the wife to spin around, desperate to see what her husband has done now.
"I think he made a connection," the wife giggles, seeing that indeed her husband is enthralled by the piece before him.
Audrey loses her breath, her hand covering her rapidly beating heart as though reflex.
For what seems like an eternity, the trio gaze at the only painting in the loft not illuminated by special lighting, or framed in eighteen carat gold.
The man digs into his pocket, pulling out his checkbook without removing his eyes from the painting.
"Name your price," he says, willing and able to pay her anything she desires.
"I love this one," Audrey replies, her voice barely a whisper.
"I love it, too," the man insists, his tone more of one driven by the desire to win, not of one who is in the presence of something they cannot live without.
"I still remember the first dapple of paint I put on the canvas," Audrey begins, her fingers gently caressing the canvas at the memory of it. She's not speaking the words to one up the man by playing the game of who loves it more; that truly would be no contest. The painting was made from her own hands, it holds the colors of her very heart. "Sometimes I want to just step inside, and lose myself in it," she adds, a far off look in her eyes.
"I think it captures the emotion we're looking for," the woman says, fearing how her husband may react to the lofty dreams of the unconventional artist.
Ignoring his wife, the man moves towards Audrey, peeling his eyes off of the painting, ready to make it clear that he will not leave without her precious piece of art in his hands.
He has written out his check to the tune of three times Audrey's net worth.
"I understand passion, and as you can see I'm passionate about your work," the man says with a puffed out chest. "But even our first loves can be bought for the right amount," the man adds, handing over the check.
As her eyes brush across the row of zeros, her face, and heart remain unaffected.
Turning away from him she replies, "I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I can't part with it."
"But, it's uh- exquisite," the wife says, her vocabulary perfectly showcasing the pairs' passion for art.
"I would rather sell my soul than sell this piece," Audrey says bluntly, strategically placing her self between the painting and the couple.
The man closes in on her, refusing to be beat by a ridiculous artist whose head is stuck in the clouds. Before his mouth can form the words to lecture her on the hierarchy of business in Metropolis, a voice stops them both with its intimidating presence.
"Ms. Peyton does do extraordinary work," the voice calls from the doorway. "But she never has fully grasped the idea of letting things go."
Audrey turns to confirm who it is darkening the door of the gallery.
"Mr. Luthor…," she begins, her words leaving her suddenly.
"Please, Ms. Peyton, call me Lionel," he offers, shaking her hand as he consumes the room.
"I did want to congratulate you," he begins, his eyes devouring her. Turning away, he looks around the loft, adding "on all of your accomplishments."
"Thank you," she says, hoping she has masterfully disguised the chills running down her spine.
"Unfortunately I came to collect on your delinquent lease."
"You what?"
"It's a shame really. An artist's mind shouldn't have to be wasted on such trivial details as paying the rent, but I have far too many accountants who are fascinated by such deadlines, and you, young lady, have missed more than your fair share."
Audrey stammers, unable to form her anger into words. Never in her life was she a moment late on any bill, nor would she ever engage into any contract with a man such as Lionel Luthor. How desperately she wants to spill her guts, spew out the words she knows can take him down, yet she finds herself frozen, unable to speak a single word.
"I hope your brushstrokes are sharper than your tongue," he says, glaring down at her face. Breezing past her towards the painting in the corner he adds "Good night, Ms. Peyton."
Spinning on his heels, he removes the small painting from the wall. "Can I interest you in a going out of business sale?" he asks the couple.
Driven by her anger, she snatches the piece from his hands declaring, "Some things can never be bought."
x X x X x X
Audrey slowly walks towards the large blue mailbox outside her building, cradling a package in her arms, unable to truly believe her circumstance has led her to be doing something so painful. Never would she have dreamt she would have to let go again, the very idea makes her hands grip the brown paper tighter.
She had written out a beautiful letter on embossed rose stationary, but decided it best to give no explanation. Hopefully this gift straight from her heart could say more than any combination of words.
She hovers over the mailbox, the inevitable now looming just before her. If she drops the package into the slot, she will find herself completely void of the only flecks of color that have ever entered her world. Yet, the darkness surrounding her now is so painfully impenetrable she finds herself having to protect that which is priceless to her. If only she could find protection in something as simple as brown paper and tape.
Drawing in her breath, she lets go of the package, hearing it thud against the bottom of the box much like the beats of her heavy heart.
x X x X x
What exactly does it take to be anonymous? This question is foremost in Audrey's mind as she nervously clicks the business card between her fingers snapping out a sound she hasn't heard since the young boys would ride by her home with baseball cards stuck in their bicycle's spokes.
She bemoans the fact that she's only ever seen the movie 'All the President's Men' and never read the book. She wonders if the book had been a bit more detailed on how one was to be a deep background source in a story that would tear down a giant. Did she have to actually give her name? Even if her name wasn't used in a story, could she trust that a titan would never discover it was she obscured by shadows in a parking garage?
The answer to those questions should surely be answered when the tinny music shooting through the phone into her ear ends, and the man whose name appears on the snapping business card answers some variation of 'Daily Planet'.
The excruciating wait zaps her nerves with shock after shock, forcing her to cross the distance between her couch and dining room table hoping the slight exercise will calm her. She faces a full wine rack, thinking that a drink might help, but knows that her system could not stand the added jolt at the moment.
"I'm sorry for the wait," a voice finally fills her ear, "he's on another call at the moment, Mrs.?" The voice searches for a name.
"I'll wait," she says, assuming it's best to hold on to her covert nature for the time being, at least until a trained professional can guide her through the labyrinth of underground garages. She takes small comfort in the fact that the receptionist addressed her as a "Mrs." The assumption that Audrey is married should protect her identity for now.
Pacing back and forth she asks herself if that pounding she feels is that of the headache that's been plaguing her all night, or perhaps someone banging at the door. She peeks down the hallway to see the door slightly vibrating. With the portable phone still cradled between her ear and shoulder she watches an envelope slide under her door, a sight that makes her desperately wish she had taken that earlier swig of wine.
Tentatively she maneuvers the four steps to the door; the nervous snapping of the business card in her left hand racing faster. She picks the envelope and clumsily spills the contents to the floor. At first, she's glad those contents didn't explode – she puts nothing past Lionel Luthor. After seeing what they are, she almost wishes they had.
Business cards litter her welcome mat. The first she picks up is identical to the one from the Daily Planet she nervously snapped between her fingers. She turns it over and sees Lionel's signature sprawled across it. The next she collects is from the Metropolis PD, and again that confident signature sprawls across it. The FBI's card has been repugnantly smeared with his name.
The last one she picks up is Lionel's own business card. But, instead of a signature on the back, he's written, "There are no more cards to play. I'm in the Lobby."
As if a ghost, she hangs up the phone, dropping it to the floor.
x X x X x
Lionel's Italian loafers have the same sheen as the newly waxed floor of her building's lobby. Without a word, he opens the door and gestures outside much like the doorman, but he does it with such panache that no one would ever mistake him for such.
Her legs shake uncontrollably as she does his bidding, finding the rubber soles of her Keds sloshing over wet pavement towards Lionel's limousine.
"Allow me," Lionel says offering her shelter from the rain with his designer umbrella, showing far more dignity than the situation should allow. She climbs in with Lionel gliding in after her.
"I'll forgive you your amateurish mistakes here at the beginning. It's a shame that an artist's mind should be taxed by matters of strategy," he says directly to her, but without granting her the courtesy of meeting her eyes.
"If it quells your fears, I learn quickly," she says, aping his tone.
"Here's your next lesson," he hands her folded legal papers, "and I'll save you the time of reading through that mire of legal terms: I bought your building here. Quite reasonably, I may add."
"And I'm an undesirable occupant?" she gleans, indeed learning quickly.
"I think you'll find that the ultimate solution will be mine to determine," Lionel announces curtly.
Audrey turns noticeably green, her fist wrapping tightly around itself.
"I won't think less of you if you wish to vomit now," Lionel opens the door and offers the street.
"You're not even worthy of that," she says taking a large step to exit the limo.
Lionel leans up in his seat to peer out of the door, "I regret that his has to continue, then."
It is only then that Audrey notices the stiff gentleman in the suit who has gotten out of the limousine on the opposite side. Lionel slams his door shut, startling Audrey. The gentleman doesn't move.
Audrey ducks into her building, not missing the irony of her doorman politely tipping his cap to her. She finds the elevator quickly, slamming her floor's button, which is the first time that she's noticed her hands shaking. As the doors slide shut, she sees that the gentleman hasn't climbed back into the limo – he stands there unmoving.
Her apartment already feels like it's not her own. She crosses to the window to look down to the street. The limousine hasn't moved; the engine hasn't even started.
The gentleman is no longer there.
Instead of releasing the terrified shriek that stuck in her throat, she backs away from the window pulling the curtains she was clutching off of the rod.
She takes only enough time to grab her purse before racing to the hallway. She looks to each end of the hallway, and decides that the east stairwell, since it empties to the back, would be the best choice. She sprints to it, swinging open the door. The sleeve of her coat catches on the knob, which she frantically untangles and leaps to the first flight of stairs.
Her feet catch the first step and freeze. Her heart stops as she remembers something she's forgotten leaving but an instant to decide if she should return for it. She swallows down her dread, spinning to head back to the apartment. There is no way she can leave it behind.
She opens the stairwell door just enough to fit one eye in the space. She tries to calculate the time it would take for a professional like the gentleman to climb to the seventeenth floor. Would he run? Would he walk?
She shakes the thought off, thoughts like that waste time. She creeps back down her hallway to her open apartment door. Did she leave it open? Did he? She rushed so quickly; her brain never had time to take hold of the memory.
She sticks a foot into the apartment, half expecting a snake to latch on and end her life. The curtains lie on the ground, which she vaguely remembers pulling off. She tiptoes quietly down the hallway and slides into her bedroom.
The one light in her living room vaguely illuminates her bed and nothing else. She climbs the illuminated path of her bed leaps to the closet door. Forgetting about stealth she dives to the back of the closet and pulls a rolled up piece of paper from a shoebox, which she tucks into her coat.
She feels a warm mist climb down her neck. Her hand grabs the wall for support, very aware that there were three walls, and only one door directly behind her. Her hips pivot turning her around to face whatever terror might await her.
The doorway is empty, and she can't quite decide if that's worse than it being filled with the vacant stare of the gentleman.
The bed remains the only illuminated path back out of the bedroom. She wonders if she were heavy enough to crumple the sheets as much as they are, or if she were followed into the bedroom. She clutches her stomach, feeling a swelling of nerves and pain.
Her hands find the molding of the closet door, which she grips tightly. If there is danger in the dark void around the bed, her only hope is to outrun it.
She yanks hard launching herself out of the closet and onto the bed. Her feet stumble on the soft mattress and she tumbles into the dark rim around the bed. The paper rolls out of her coat and into the living room beyond. Focusing on that, she picks herself up, running from the room snatching the rolled paper as she goes.
The east stairwell is clear, she doesn't bother to check the west on the chance that the gentleman might be hanging there.
Seventeen flights of stairs should normally be a chore for a city dweller used to elevators, but she descends them effortlessly. She never looks back, preferring to chase life rather than face death.
Parked in the alley is her car containing the few belongings she has left to her name; only a handful of supplies she snuck out of her gallery earlier that night. She remembers a thousand movies where the car would choose this instant to freeze up and not start. Luckily, she would not be faced with that irony tonight.
She steers the car down the alley and into the street, passing the front of her building, where there is empty cement where Lionel's limousine was perched just moments before.
For the first time in several minutes, she's able to take a breath.