A shop stands on the edge of what could be thought of as an everyday street. It is successful in its task. The building, from the outside at least, looks like an average shop, selling the average things. Only once you enter, and maybe if you know the secret, you will be able to find out the darkness which lies beneath.
A tall man wearing a dark suit walks down the quiet street: he pauses briefly and glances at the name of the building before him. Seemingly satisfied with the establishment, he walks in to the shop, the door clanking as he pushes it perhaps a little too hard. His feet echo on the silent tiled floor…or perhaps it is Lino. This neck of the woods isn’t too fashionable, after all. No member of staff approaches him: the portly server behind the counter stays silent and cowers.
The man, adjusting his cuffs, walks on deeper into the shop, and clears his throat. He comes to a separation, a door, a barricade. He opens it silently, and walks through.
The room is brighter than you would have expected, somehow filled with light despite the absence of windows. It could be the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead. The man walks away, taking his pre-rehearsed place in the room, to the left, and he stands, silently. Waiting.
Passing behind the back of men in dark suits, mingling with the industrial feel of the furniture…a state of disrepair. Disrepair which is only seen if you look closely and notice the details.
A woman sits, her extended neck outstretched. As if craning towards the conversation which was taking place towards the centre of the table. A man standing. A man sitting. The table which divides them.
The well dressed and some what distinguished older man wearing a sharp suit with an open collar sits calmly, hands outstretched on knees. He speaks softly, his forehead carrying burdens which the avenger person could not even have dreamed about, or that is, their nightmares could have not contained. The images which he possesses would have seeping into reality, blurring the lines between living and dead, slowly taking over, taking hold. Suffocating him as he sat there. Stay strong. Stay in control. His eyes were peaceful, he was in no discomfort.
‘Pauly’ He spoke, gently. But his accent bristling the name, scrubbing it clean imposing it onto the younger man standing across form him. Pauly flinched, he averted his gaze. Scared. ‘ It’s a compromise. Make it right. You know what you’ve got to do’ he shrugged.
The woman in the corner got to her feet, legs which were too thin to hold a person so heavily weighed down with the make up on her face. She walks, slowly, calmly, with a smirk on her face, towards the seated man. She brings out a knife, the blade flashing in the light, and hands it to the scared individual. Nods of appreciation follow.
‘Maurice-‘ Pauly starts but decides against it.
He places his little finger on the table and lines the knife up with it. He breathes, winces, brings down the knife. The chop cutes the silence.
Ollie Harvey-Avery's AS Media Studies Blog 