Eyes Behind Shades

When the cool running water stopped, she smiled. Lipstick painted her face. Fuschia painted those bulbous lips and black eyeliner shaded under her pupils. She sipped Luc Belaire wine. She puffed from a vaporizer. A grin slid onto her face like a deathstalker slinking through the sand to find other scorpions. She wrapped up her makeup kit and dressed in black latex.

I sensed she had been prepared for the video shoot. I walked over to the bathroom counter when she opened the door. I sipped the wine. Her lips met mine.

“Are you really ready?” I asked her, my voice still low and filled with vibrato.

“Of course,” she said, her black skin matching the suit that also featured seven inch heels. She showed off a black, bald head.

“Alright, everyone!” I announced walking out of the trailer. “Our star is ready!”

I found the assistant director, the line producer, and the prop master.

The dancers on the platform in the Saharan Desert seemed annoyed, ticked off, pissed, or pleased somehow. Their faces seemed serene despite the fact the star didn’t even make the effort to let them know she would be late to the set. Regardless, their professionalism weighed out during the entire experience.

“Alright,” I said. “We’re going to try this in one take. Sound! Video! Action!”

The star stepped like a black mamba seeking out hyraxes. The dancers knew their markers and moved rhythmically to the music. I was ready to yell cut, but they demonstrated excellence in dance.

Now, the main idea behind the treatment called for Xela to hoist a tool of death. An AR-15 as black as her skin, her hair, her eyeliner and her eyeshade waved about towards the camera and the crew.

She squeezed the semi-automatic weapon’s trigger and then came the screams. Blood spattered the equipment. She whipped it around at her dancers. Xela brandished it with the sound of rounds ripping out of the weapon. The prop master, Gholson ran to me.

“What the hell?!” he asked, his eyes wild.

“Somebody obviously sabotaged us.” We ducked behind a catering cart. The carnage chilled me. All of the dancers, the producers, the writer…all gunned down in the blazing heat and sandy locale.

She was more than part of the show and then realized that the dancers either remained motionless or writhed in pain. A moaning arose from the rest of them. In cold actions, She placed the muzzle to their heads and ended their misery. She reloaded and set out for the rest of the crew. Gholson and I snuck around the back of one of the trailers as she engaged the firearm.

“You’re not getting away!” Xela shrieked. My heart became a ball peen hammer knocking against a chisel. I stayed down in a squatting position. I saw Gholson raise his head. He caught one right between the eyes.

I held my breath. I could hear her reloading once more. While she took her time to place rounds in the killing machine, I ran into the trailer. She shot up the thin metal above my head. This made it look like drops of sunlight pierced through the vehicle. It was like little fingers had poked it. I had to scramble. I looked for some weapon in the trailer, mind you on my knees this whole time, the ball peen hammer slamming away.

I found my phone and dialed the police. Like that would do any good. Merzouga stood as the nearest town to the desert. I still dialed.

“Hello, yes, there’s been an accident, no, there’s been an incident. Many dead. I’m in the desert.”

“We’re tracking your coordinates to your phone right now. What is the nature of this ‘incident?’”

“Murder.”

“We will send a unit out to your position. Is this a shooting incident?”

“Yes.”

“Is the shooter still active and within the area?”

“Yes.”

I heard the sound of metal ping and more holes dotted the trailer.

“Can you hear that?! That’s her!”

“The shooter is a woman?”

“It’s Xela.”

“The singer?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, just find the safest place possible.”

“She’s already mowed down everyone else…I’m the only one…someone switched out the props….” I said all of this low and calm despite my anxiety. It clutched me and held onto me like the sweaty shirt clung to my frame. Her voice, soft, lilting just a bit clashed with the sound of the rounds rippling against the side even more.

It looked like it would take hours before the cavalry would come to neutralize the situation. During this whole time, Xela wore her shades, eyeliner running. She had opened up a social media site and began to broadcast the wake of her carnage. She finally opened the door to the double wide. I crouched behind a small table. She kicked it aside.

I put my hands to my side. She took off her shades to reveal even more smeared makeup. Her sniffles seemed to be like songs of sorrow.

“Xe—” I managed.

“No. I did this. I am ready for whatever is my fate.”

“Yes. This is a lot.” It was all I could say. For some reason, my heart slowed. Was it because she held the rifle at the ready with over the shoulder retention? I listened to her.

“This industry…you know…I just….”

“I’ve got it. You can get help,” I yelped.

“It’s past that point you’d argue…no?”

I exhaled for the first time in a long time.

Xela lowered the rifle. I approached her. Slowly. I motioned for her to come to me. Then, she backed away. She made a clear distance between us and lifted the rifle.

“I get it. I get it. Just put down the gun and we can talk about all of this.”

She placed the muzzle of the gun under her chin, the metal still hot. She pulled the trigger. I left the trailer. Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.