His Smoke Cloud Covers His Sinning

His Smoke Cloud Covers his Sinning


I know that this is quite a large party, my dear, but you really must pay attention to all of the faces. All of these people, these wealthy sorts, they are all playing parts. Better actors, really, than any you’ll see in London town. That man there on the chaise—yes, between the two fine looking women—is going through a horrible time, but he wouldn’t let on for the world.

His great shoulders are concealed by dark, velvet material. All the ladies admire his specially made waistcoats. They tell him he looks the best in red, but he cringes at anything revealing his Hellish nature.

He smells like a thousand snuff boxes, though he only carries one, and he makes great fun of parlour games, if only because he isn’t that sort of quick. No, he doesn’t think up spur-of-the-moment situations to please the crowds. He prefers to create his diabolical schemes for weeks on end. All-Boys boarding school will do that to you.

This man has a great smile, but he never truly smiles. He sneers, gloats and smirks in public, for smiling is a sign of weakness to him, and life is much too dark to smile. His great curls of auburn hair are rather popular, and he finds it astonishing that God would adorn him with a feature so akin to a cherub.

The women laughing on either side of him have no way of knowing that last night he sucked back three glasses of whiskey and rode a whore until she cried, nor does his mother—see her there, grinning proudly in the corner? He’s still a little boy, somewhere beneath the layers of vest and shirt. But his habits do not understand that.

He clamps down on his cigar and casts a glance at the stately gentlemen before him, knowing he won’t live to be as old as them. He’ll make certain of that. He finds them silly anyhow, and so he exhales on his cigar in a practiced motion and pretends that the vapor before him will cover his sinning.

He’s always concocting foolish little games like that inside his head. It keeps him engaged. He cocks his head to the side and wonders if the whore he conquered will alert the head of the brothel. Even then, he wouldn’t be found out, because she does not know his real name. He shrugs, smirking, and only when he is alone does he smile.

They had joked, prior to this. She had told him that, given his size, he should forever be on the bottom, no matter how much he loved supreme domination. He is a man of immense width and height. As a boy he was portly, but now he is known as well-built. He likes his size. It commands respect.

She had it coming. She should have known.

His mother is pointing him out to the people she has been chatting with. “He’s there,” she says, gushingly, excited. “There is John. There is my son! He’s ever so dear. Oh, John! Come meet the Halls!”

‘Dear,’ he thinks, and looks over his shoulder, pretending that his mother is speaking about another son, pretending he hasn’t a clue about who she is.

She certainly doesn’t have a clue about who he is, though she’s looking right at him.

Sometimes we aren’t looking hard enough.