Callum’s Hell

by Mason, V. F.

  I wear the dress, hating the cloth sliding down my skin, and she sits me on the chair in front of the mirror, combing my hair again. She lets it hang down my back and then takes the powder from her table, putting it on my face, neck, and shoulders. “We can’t have your bruises visible for him. You know they like to inflict those themselves.” Her eyes are shiny. “Even pay more for it.” She picks up the lipstick and slowly puts it on me, wiping away the smears from the corner of my mouth. “Be nice to him, and I will even let you pick out your cartoon.”

  Cartoon.

  That’s the other thing I hate most in life, because it brings me pain and agony every single minute.

  The thing I hate the most… is my mom’s happiness.

  Because her happiness means my sorrow.

  Giselle

  Wrapping my hands around my knees, I rock on the bed back and forth, all while trying to make sense of the images I saw earlier.

  Many videos of Callum torturing different men till they lose their bravery and beg him for their lives.

  And how he always drops them from some high building or place, just to enjoy how they die.

  I whimper onto the top of my knees and cover my ears so I won’t hear their screams echoing over and over.

  I’m sorry.

  But as awful as it sounds, this is not the most terrifying thing on the videos.

  No, the complete blank and bored expression on Callum’s face is.

  There are no traces of remorse, or guilt, or any freaking human emotion!

  The door squeaks and I freeze, too scared to raise my head and face him. The footsteps are especially loud in the otherwise silent space as he enters and clicks his fingers.

  The room brightens under the harsh light, but I hide from the brightness, or maybe from the monster.

  After all, what else should I call him?

  “So Magnolia told me you visited the media room.” His voice sweeps around us, so calm, so relaxed, as if it’s no big deal what I saw.

  I continue to shake on the bed, willing myself to wake up from this nightmare, because it can’t be my reality. I couldn’t have been with a killer all this time and not seen it. I couldn’t have allowed him to touch me, or worse—I couldn’t have allowed myself to fall in love with him.

  “That’s why orders exists in this world, my wild orchid. You broke them, and now you’re sad.” The lighter flicks in his hand and he puffs out smoke. “Pity.”

  “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,” I chant desperately, but no matter how much I repeat it, he doesn’t go away. I’m still in my nightmare.

  “This is reality, Giselle.” I can hear him come closer by the rustling of the bed, and then his fingers lift my chin, and I finally meet his stare, the same handsome man looking at me as before. Except now I know what hides beneath his beauty, and what I discovered is ugly and sordid. “Your eyes are like two sapphires shimmering in the light after you cry,” he murmurs, wiping away a tear from my cheek, and his touch snaps me out of my stupor.

  Slapping his hand away, I scoot back on the bed, plastering myself to the headboard, and shout, “Stay away from me!” I’m not sure what I expected after my declaration, taking into consideration the earlier videos, but him stepping back and raising his hands wasn’t it. “You’re a killer.”

  He tsks his tongue in distaste. “Come on, darling. Get your facts right. I’m a serial killer. There is a big difference.” My brows furrow, so he adds, “Killers usually kill on command or for money. Serial killers kill for the sheer joy of the action.” The bile rises in my throat and acid fills my mouth at his words once again, but he’s not done. “And when we do that often, there is always a method too.”

  “You are disgusting,” I hiss, covering my mouth and hoping I won’t barf all over the bed.

  “I’m honest and don’t make excuses for my actions. If it makes me disgusting, so be it.” Callum snatches his jacket from the chair and goes to the door. “I’ll give you some time to think about that.”

  “There is nothing to think about!” I shout, getting up on my knees and hectically searching for any kind of weapon. “I won’t stay with you. You are a disgusting monster, and I will run away. You can inflict any kind of torture and—”

  “Torture?” he asks, rubbing his chin and hitting the floor with the tip of his shoe. “Your imagination is an interesting thing, darling. I have no plans of torturing or inflicting pain on you.”

  “What?” What kind of game is this? He just admitted to being a serial killer, and he brought me to his island. Surely it means I have been his target all along. “I’m your victim!”

  He laughs, goose bumps breaking out on my skin, because there is nothing warm about it. “Victim? No, my love. You are my queen in this kingdom.” He throws a book on the bed, and advises, “Read this to understand your purpose to me.” And he shuts the door and locks it before I can say anything else.

  I focus my gaze on the title, and it’s about the ancient myths of Greece.

  My fingers tremble when I flip it open, and then I notice a yellow bookmark on page 200. I quickly move there.

  The myth of Persephone.

  I don’t need to read it, because myths were my fascination back in high school. Knew and loved them all, but especially Persephone, as she was the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of fertility of the earth.

  Persephone, who got kidnapped by the Hades, god of the underworld, and stayed forever imprisoned there due to his trickery.

  Oh my God.

  Callum

  I rest my back against the door, listening to her, but no sounds come. But once she knows the truth, she’ll be hysterical.

  When people think they are victims, they have this weird hope of escaping their captor, thinking that if they act smart enough or brave enough, they’ll be able to end their nightmare.

  After all… victims are interchangeable for serial killers, right?

  But there is no hope left when one doesn’t want you to be a victim.

  Oh, no. When you have a specific role to fulfill… there is no escape and no hope.

  Just doom and darkness that forever claims your life.

  I should know.

  I’ve lived in it for the last twenty-five years.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Callum, 7 years old

  The doorbell rings, and my heart stills then gallops wildly again when Mommy squeals in excitement. “Jimmy is here.” She squeezes my shoulders harshly, and I jump to the side, avoiding her touch. “Be very nice, Callum. He is willing to pay twice what Jordan does,” she warns me again right before checking herself in the mirror and rushing downstairs to greet her new friend.

  Looking at the mirror, I study my reflection, hoping, no needing to see the boy in it.

  But all I see is a pretty girl ready to entertain Jimmy. I’m not sure what that means, but Mommy uses those words to describe all those evenings.

  Do as they say.

  Allow them to touch you.

  Be nice, always nice, Callum.

  “Callum!” Mommy calls from the living room no doubt, and glancing at myself one last time, I go down, all while wanting to wipe away the lipstick that leaves a funny taste in my mouth.

  Each step I take downstairs brings me closer and closer to this new friend, and I swallow back the desire to vomit all over the floor.

  Finally reaching the living room, I enter. The air stills in my lungs when the man comes into view.

  He is standing with my mom near the couch as he extends to her a thick envelope and then glances at me, his eyes scanning me from head to toe as he licks his lips.

  His heavy boots slam against each other as he drops onto the couch, right in front of the TV, and motions with his hand for me to come closer. “Look at you, pretty girl,” he murmurs and then nods at my mother. “The product is as good as Jordan said.”

  Mom beams with pride, puffing out her chest before pressing me forward with her splayed palm on my back so I’ll go to him. “Pleasure is all mine
. Enjoy Catherine. One cartoon.” She informs him, and then adds, “At least for the first time.”

  “I’m willing to pay more if she is as good as you mentioned.”

  “Oh, of course.” But then warning laces her tone when she says sternly, “Remember the rules.”

  “I’m aware of them.” I’m not sure what those rules are that Mommy always speaks of when she talks about my cartoon watching with those men, but it must be something important.

  “Well then.” Mommy picks up the remote, turns on the cartoon, and leaves the room, throwing over her shoulder, “I will come back ten minutes after it ends.” She shakes an alarm clock in her hand. “Everything is timed.” And with that, she shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone with the stranger.

  “Catherine, join me on the couch.” He pats the seat next to him while the loud volume of the cartoon echoes through the space.

  I listen to his command, not once correcting him calling me that. Mommy said for them, I should always act like a girl, because then they won’t hurt me.

  I never understood it either, because no matter what they did… it hurt me.

  He throws his arm over me, wrapping it around me, and hugs me close.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat, breathing through my nose as his hand slides up to my hair where he runs his fingers through it, murmuring in surprise, “So soft… so soft.” He inhales the smell of it and puts his other hand on my belly, fisting the dress, all while I’m stiff in his arms, keeping my gaze on the cartoon and imagining something else entirely.

  A playground where I’m alone, with no people in sight. I can play in the sandbox or swings, without anyone ever looking at me.

  His hand slides lower, to my legs, and he runs his fingers over them, pinching my skin, and I hold back a cry, this time imagining a beautiful field filled with roses and orchids, the only flowers that Miss Perkins allows in our classroom.

  My attention belongs to the cartoon though, and their cheery voices that disturb my mind, because all I want to do is rush outside and never come back.

  He gives me a loud peck on my neck before commanding, “Get on your knees, Catherine. It will be more comfortable watching the cartoon like that.” I’m still frozen on the spot, blocking out his voice, but he grabs my arms and pushes me to the floor, my knees hitting it harshly. “Follow the command.” Then I feel him hiking up the back of my dress and snatching down the pajama bottoms I still have on under it, while his hands glide over my skin.

  He fists my hair and covers my mouth with his hand right before he does what brings me the most pain.

  My cry fills his palm, all while I scrunch my eyes and block out the sounds he makes, the pain he brings, the revulsion running through me, and the vomit in my mouth. Instead, I chant the names of the flowers from our last science lessons over and over again, willing for the delicious smell to come back and take me away from here.

  Our teacher used to say that there is a god of the underworld, Hades, who takes care of all lost souls.

  Can he come and take care of me?

  The cartoon continues to run as the man plays and plays with me, his hands sliding up and down my spine, my sides, and at some point, he even hits me, not that I feel it.

  Finally, the ending of the cartoon reaches my ears and he lets go of me. I fall on my hands, allowing the tears to come.

  “You are really good,” he praises me and then locks his fingers around my chin, turning his head to me, and wipes away the lipstick from my mouth before giving me a peck. “I will visit you again, Catherine. You are so nice for your Jimmy.”

  I scoot back and quickly put my pants on, still sticky from his touch, and that’s when Mommy enters, smiling. “Catherine, go up.” I run away before she can promise anything else and rush toward the bathroom where I lock the door and quickly remove the clothes.

  Then I sit under the shower, arms wrapped around my legs, and weep into my knees, as water falls on my skin.

  If Hades exists in this world, then I pray for him to come after me and take me away from here.

  But that’s just the beginning of my nightmare.

  Giselle

  Shaking my head in denial, I gulp breaths as the myth plays in my mind. By now, I’ve read it ten times back and forth, examined every scene to find the solution to my problem, but there is none.

  There are different variations of the ancient myth but the one Callum brought me is pretty clear.

  After Hades abducted Demeter’s daughter, she tried to get her back but couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally, some of the gods told her what happened, and as revenge, she froze the land, not letting it produce. People couldn’t harvest anything, so Zeus, Persephone’s father, ordered Hades to bring her daughter back to him.

  Hades, though, had tricked Persephone, making her eat in the underworld, and as such, she had to spend half of the year with him.

  And so goes the legend that spring comes where Demeter welcomes her daughter, as she is so happy… and fall comes when Persephone has to go back to her husband, and her mother mourns her loss.

  This myth’s purpose was to show changes of weather through seasons… but it always had such a different meaning for me.

  I felt so bad for Persephone for being abducted and having to live with a man she didn’t choose… even if they were mythical characters.

  But what does it mean for us?

  According to this, Callum’s intention is not to kill me. No, he wants me to live with him in this darkness while… what? My family mourns my loss?

  I don’t have a mother. Why did he pick a myth that is so closely connected with mothers? If anything, he should have chosen one with a father or something.

  “What am I going to do?” I mutter, pacing the room back and forth and weighing my options. There are no sharp objects, no extra keys to open the terrace door, or anything that might help me to escape.

  I can’t even use my phone, because the line is blocked, displaying no service. I bet he blocked it somehow.

  Crying out in frustration, I bang on the wall and then wince when pain travels from my knuckles to my arm. “Hurting myself won’t help me correct the situation.” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be hysterical or what.

  Once the initial shock wears off, I focus only on the plan of escape. Grandpa Darius used to say that I could be absolutely calm in nerve-wracking situations and lose my shit later.

  Right now, I don’t have the privilege of acting like a hysterical victim. Or the reason, for that matter, since Callum hasn’t shown me any cruelty.

  Yet.

  “Okay, think,” I say out loud and grab a notepad from the bedside table, along with a pen. Sitting on the bed and crossing my legs, I take the book and quickly write down common themes from the myth to see the connection.

  Hades abducted Persephone because he wanted her but knew her mother would never agree to that. Zeus though started to care about it only when people complained to him at the altars for lack of food.

  Which means Zeus is my father in this case, who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my whereabouts or actions as long as it doesn’t harm his campaign.

  I write it down and put a question mark, to investigate it later.

  Hades tricked her like Callum tricked me, trapping me on this island with no way to escape.

  A tiny little voice in my head rebels at the idea though, reminding me that nothing would have happened if I hadn’t found the room.

  Slapping my cheek, I order myself, “Focus!” and draw other similarities between the characters and the outcomes. In a way, both sides lost, because they had to live without Persephone, and the only victim in this situation was she who had to bend to all those rules.

  However, my so-called abduction to the island happened at the very end, while in the myth it happened at the beginning. If this is the key to our situation, and according to him it is, it means that all this started way before.

  Did it start with my family?

  I circle Dem
eter’s name and ponder who it might be. There is a connection there, but I can’t place it.

  The lock in the door twists and my head snaps up to see Callum entering, carrying a tray with food. “Magnolia said you refused to eat dinner.” The sweet woman knocked on my door an hour ago, begging me to eat something. I said no, and she let me be, and I was glad she didn’t come inside.

  I don’t think I could have stayed respectful if that happened. What kind of person, a mother at that, helps a monster like Callum?

  I stay silent, and he comes in farther, placing it on the small, round table in the middle of the room that has two chairs with it. “This childish behavior doesn’t suit you, wild orchid,” he says, and even though I detect mocking in it, I still keep my mouth shut.

  Although I still watch him from under my lashes, trembling inside from fear he might do something, or worse. What if he wants me again? Will he take me by force?

  “So this is going to be a silent game. Very well,” he announces and takes out a phone from his pocket, clicking something before showing the display to me. “For every minute you are silent, a precious tree will be plucked out of the soil.” He slides through the images and my eyes widen when he reveals hundred-year-old trees that are… not to be touched by anyone and have so much history! “Can you live with that?”

  Since I continue to stay silent, he sighs heavily. He presses something again. “Hope you weren’t too attached to that oak tree near the west wing of Lachlan’s mansion.”

  He is about to click something again when my distressed cry stops him. “All right!” I exhale heavily. “I will talk.”

  “Eat your food.” That’s all he says before spinning around, but my words halt his movements, and his hand pauses on the handle.

  “Why are you doing this?” His back tenses, and I will all my courage forward and decide to handle it as a grown up.

  Screaming at him and then overanalyzing, hoping to escape… it won’t help; you can’t reason with this kind of stuff. But if he is not harming me now and never showed violence toward me… maybe I need to take a different approach.