She lifts her chin, having decided that a good offense is the best defense.
“No.”
Her voice is low and husky. Reminds me of Sophia Loren, but without the accent.
I lovingly caress the button on the remote control in my pocket, my thumb sliding over its polished plastic surface. My eyes lock on hers as I remove the device from its hiding place, holding it up so she can see how small, slim, and discreet it is. I want her to see it. I want her to watch me press the button. This way she has no doubts about who is in control.
The shock sends her sliding off the chair. I’ve ratcheted it up all the way now––I’d only had it on the medium setting the first time––and her whole body thrums with the electricity I’m shooting through her. I release the button and the pain stops, her body going slack on the floor. She shudders once, a string of drool oozing out of her mouth. A puddle of urine pools around her hips, but it doesn’t bother me. I just go to the supply closet behind me, unlock the door with one of the keys hanging around my neck, and retrieve a roll of paper towels, a brown paper grocery bag, and a bottle of Nature’s Miracle, placing it at her feet.
“Clean yourself up,” I say.
I take care not to let her see the interior of the supply closet: the plastic sheeting, the extra-large roll of garbage bags, the bottles of Clorox, the boxes of disposable cotton gloves, paper jumpsuits, and paper booties. I like to leave things to the imagination, and a look inside my supply closet would give away part of the ending.
Dazed, she collects herself, takes the paper towels and mops up her waste, deposits it in the brown bag––which, unbeknownst to her, I will burn in my fire pit later. She looks up at me through fringed lashes, her long, brown hair falling over her face. There is defiance there. But there is delicious fear, too.
I slide the remote control back into my pocket but do not remove my hand again. Now she will be in the dark, will not know when the next shock is coming.
“Cut yourself,” I whisper, encouraging her with my words.
“Where?” she says.
Where? I wonder for a moment, until inspiration strikes. “Take off the tip of your nose.”
She stares at me, uncomprehending. I distinctly hear her stomach growl. I know she has been on set for twenty-five hours without a meal, but hunger makes the senses sharper, gives a better performance.
“I said, take off the tip of your nose.”
Almost against her will, she reaches out and takes the blade. Her arm rises—my excitement mounts—then she stops, the blade an inch from her nose.
“I don’t want to,” she says, her tone perilously close to whining. “Do I have to?”
I nod.
She swallows, her chapped lips compressing into one thin line. She places the blade against the tip of her nose and closes her eyes. The blade––razor sharp, I’ve made sure––slices through the dermis and then the cartilage. It happens so quickly, the thrust of her hand so decisive, that, at first, it doesn’t bleed. But as her pale flesh falls to the ground, exposing the raw inner parts, the blood begins to flow in earnest. She screams at what she’s just done, the pain registering, finally. She looks down at the floor where the tip of her nose lays, the flat, bloody part pressed onto the concrete. She looks at the blade in her hand, then she lifts her eyes to me. Whatever she sees there, whatever the open window to my soul reveals, makes her scream and scream and scream.
And then the ground begins to shake.
WHATEVER HELL I’VE fallen into must be of my own making. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it—no, that’s a lie, and if I can’t be honest with myself at a time like this, then I’m a hopeless case. I’ve done plenty; I’ve been petty and vindictive, dishonest, I’ve made an art form out of situational ethics, and if I have any personal principles, they’re subject to change without notice. Mom rarely emerged from her alcoholic miasma long enough to teach anything about morality, and her husband was no saint, unless there’s a patron saint of diddling stepdaughters. But I understand that a person has to set her own standards and live up to them, and in that pursuit, I have failed miserably.
But this, now . . . I must have brought it upon myself, because a neutral universe wouldn’t allow it.
Or else the universe isn’t neutral, but insane. Yes, that must be a possibility, too. The universe is insane and the “director” is insane and me—with a razor’s edge held against my nose, the cute, petite button of a nose I’ve been unreasonably prideful of for so long, upturned at the very end—well, I’m either insane or simply a victim, unmoored, haplessly floating in a river of crazy.
He stares at me. That fat pink tongue emerges from his mouth, laps across his lips once. He looks famished.
Hapless. Hopeless.
I make the cut.
Nothing. Did I miss? But then it hits, a shock of pain almost electric in its suddenness. At the same instant, a pale dollop of flesh hits the floor in front of me and I realize what it is and I look up at the man who made me do it and my mouth falls open and the screaming begins. I fall off the chair, certain I’ve pissed myself again, not giving a damn.
But the chair keeps moving behind me, and the floor’s moving too. I think it’s me, but then I see him throw his legs apart for balance, arms outstretched, and he eyes the ceiling. Dust cascades from above. The motion continues, harder, jolt after jolt.
I find myself embracing sanity again. Because this is an earthquake, and I’ve felt a couple of those before. Frightening as they can be—and this feels like a serious one—at least they’re somewhat familiar. The quake tethers me to reality, and I realize I truly have cut off the tip of my nose. Blood spatters the floor and my stomach heaves, and I spew my guts onto the floorboards, noticing as I do that they’re buckling. All around me are the sounds of the structure cracking and snapping and heaving and groaning.
He—the director—tries to run. He bolts for the door, but the ground bucks and hurls him down. At the same time a crashing noise sounds from above. He cranes his neck, looks up, and screams, his hands and feet skittering, unable to find purchase.
And a ceiling beam—in a brief instant of clarity I recognize it as a six-by-six and suspect it’s redwood—snaps and plummets, jagged end first.
It hits him dead on. It spears his lower back, I can actually see an immense shard of bloody wood erupt from his abdomen. As he slumps to the floor, plaster and debris tear loose from overhead and fall across his legs.
More crashing sounds from outside this room, as if the whole—whatever; I think, because of the lack of windows, that we’re in a basement, but that’s only a guess at this point—as if the whole rest of the house is collapsing on us. I brace for more falling beams, ready to die in the crush. Almost eager for the end.
Almost, but not quite.
The shaking ceases and after one more thunderous roar, all is still. Dust has filled the room. It settles slowly, softer than snowfall. I gag on it, spit blood and puke and phlegm.
I force myself to my knees, to my feet.
I’ve lived in L.A. long enough to know that there will likely be aftershocks. For the moment, though, the earth is quiet, its wad shot. Awareness dawns slowly, but dawn it does, and I know these things:
• I have mutilated myself.
• Even so, I’m not as injured as he is. He’s alive, but maybe not for long. He’s moaning and writhing under the weight of the beam that pierced his midsection and maybe broke his legs.
• The house is a wreck, but the power, remarkably, remains on.
• Maybe the universe contains mercy as well as madness, because it has given me a chance.
On unsteady legs, I walk around him, giving him a wide berth. He’s awake, looking at me, his eyes pleading. Blood runs from his mouth in a steady trickle, and although his jaw moves, the only sound he makes is a wordless gurgle.
Beyond him is the door. I’m almost afraid to test it, but the knob turns easily in my hand. Opening it is a challenge, but that’s because of debris
behind it. I give a shove and I’m through.
On the other side is the room I was in earlier. I recognize the lights, the rack of clothing, a big slab of butcher block that’s probably where I was lying. As woozy as I am, I know I’ve got to get out of here before I faint. I go to a wall, moving with my fingers always in contact with it for support, and explore the perimeter, beyond what I could see before. Somewhere, there’s a way out.
I almost trip over the staircase before I recognize it. Light barely penetrates this corner of the space, and at first it just looks like a pile of lumber. Then my eye distinguishes the regular perpendiculars of stairs, and I feel a surge of hope. But these steps are lying on their sides, and when I look up, where the staircase should be, there’s a massive clot of wood and plaster and stone. I could dig through it, perhaps.
If I had a month or two. And a shovel. Or maybe a backhoe.
If this is the only exit, then not only is the universe insane, but it’s got one hell of a cruel streak.
As I stand there, looking at it, tears welling in my eyes, I hear his voice call out weakly. “Louise?”
It’s all I can do not to pass out from hunger, exhaustion, and hopelessness.
THE PAIN IS exquisite, deep and heady. Like the smell of gasoline just before you light the match that sends whatever you’ve drenched in it off to hell.
I wonder if this is how my actors felt. Or were they merely shocked . . . reeling, unprepared? Did any of them understand that by making them stars, I was breathing life into them? I like to think they did, that they accepted my gift graciously and were, in the end, pleased with what I had given them.
As I watch Louise scurry through the doorway leading to the next room, yanking at her collar as she goes, I start worrying that I may have let her down. I want Louise to have the gift, to be purified and released from her burden, but fate has intervened and I don’t think it’s going to happen. At least, not by my hands.
I begin to wonder how long it will take to die. I twist my head, looking behind me to the closet where I keep all my materials. If only I could get closer, just a few feet really, I could open the door, knock the gasoline can over, light the flowing liquid with my Zippo. It wouldn’t be a complete success, but I would release us both and that would be something. I find that I do not want to die. Correction: I don’t mind dying, just not this way. Just not if my body is left to rot like a common animal. If there are no flames, then there is no point.
That’s when I notice the forgotten piece of Louise’s nose where it lies on the floor, just beyond my grasp. The savory red-and-peach color catches my eye, enticing me. I reach out my right hand—the left is pinned under me, useless––and stretch my fingers, inching toward it. My index finger grazes the edge of the tip, but no matter how I strain, I cannot reach it, and the pain I engender in my attempts fills my eyes with tears, sends searing fire through my abdomen.
I hear Louise struggling with something in the other room. After a few moments, she returns—she has put on a long brown sweater from the wardrobe rack in the other room, and the sacklike clothing has walled her away from me. There is nothing she can do about the collar, though. It still hangs from her throat like an untried noose—so there is that. Too bad the controller is in my pants pocket on the left side of my body, totally inaccessible.
She walks over and squats down in front of my face. I can see disgust in her eyes, and I realize the damage to my body must be massive. I wish I could stand outside of myself and view it objectively.
“Is there another way out of here?” she asks, her voice controlled, even.
“Why?” I reply, genuinely curious.
She sits back on her haunches, sighs. I can see that she is conflicted—or maybe my severe injury has upset her. Maybe she is just queasy about blood and viscera. Some people are, I’ve found.
Finally, she responds. “Because the earthquake caved in the ceiling above the stairs. We can’t get out that way.”
I nod, pretending to think, but really waiting to see what else she is going to say.
“I can’t get you to a doctor,” she adds. “Unless you tell me how to get out of here.”
She is a sly one. I doubt she will call a doctor if she gets out. She will leave me here to rot. That’s what she’ll do—and it’s the one thing I cannot abide.
“There’s no way out, then,” I say. “That was the only exit. I had it built that way on purpose.”
The calm façade leaves her and she stands up, starts pacing. To my delight, she unwittingly kicks the tip of her nose, scooting it much closer to me than it was. Before she can stop me, I reach out my hand—the pain from my guts sliding up my vertebrae and into my throat—and grab the thing.
“Stop it!” she shrieks, squatting down again, snatching at it.
She’s too late. I slide the delicious piece of skin into my mouth and begin to chew. Her eyes pop almost out of her head, and she grabs me by the jaw and tries to pry my lips apart. Not smart, I think as she forces her fingers into my mouth. I have very sharp teeth and I like to use them. She screams when I chomp down on the index and middle fingers of her right hand. I feel flesh and sinew start to give way, but she manages to extract her fingers before I can sever them.
She falls back on her ass and scuttles away from me, glassy eyed with fear. I settle back and finish eating the tip of her nose, savoring its chewy texture and the saltiness of the coagulating blood. All in all, it’s a rather scrumptious treat.
“You’re insane,” she whispers, more to herself than to me. She shakes her head, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, what’s happened to her.
“I have a phone,” I say once I’ve swallowed the last morsel of skin, having had to flick it out from between my teeth where it had gotten wedged.
She sits up, fire burning in her eyes again. Hope. “Give it to me,” she says, starting to crawl back toward me.
I shake my head.
“There’s a condition.”
This stops her cold. She sits down, stares at me.
“You must watch one of my movies first.”
I GIVE HIM time. It seems like hours, but the analog clock in the control room tells me it’s only been forty-five minutes. Waiting is the hardest thing I have ever done, but I have the advantage over him. He’s dying, bleeding out on the floor of that wretched basement room. He knows it. Sooner or later, he’ll break, will give me the phone or tell me where it’s hidden. Or he’ll die and I’ll be able to search his ruined corpse for it. I can outlast him. My nose is hardly bleeding anymore, and I’ve wrapped the fingers he bit in rags torn from his “costume” rack. I could use some first aid, but I’ll live.
While waiting, I’m not idle. I tear the place apart, looking for it. I find his studio or whatever, full of high-tech equipment I don’t know the uses of, monitors and microphones and switches and dials, dozens of soft blue and red lights glowing. I should be able to land a 767 with what’s in here, but I can’t find anything that will allow me to communicate with the world outside.
I do find shelves of DVDs in plain plastic cases. These must be the movies he’s talking about. Has been talking about, since I first woke up here. One of the movies he wants me to star in.
If I watch one, he’ll let me have the phone. That’s the deal, right? I’m not sure how he’ll know if I’ve actually watched it, since there’s no monitor in the room he’s in, and he’s sure as hell not coming in here to watch me watching. But I suppose he could ask questions about it, to verify that I paid attention.
Another idea strikes me, and I go back into the empty room. The stench of his dying is thicker now, flavoring the air. “Where are we?” I ask. “I mean, where’s your house located?”
His face is pale and drawn, his voice weaker than it was before. “I asked you a question before. Human myoglobin. You admitted your ignorance.”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s a protein found in muscle tissue. It’s what makes m
eat red. It’s only found in the bloodstream if there’s severe muscle damage. When anthropologists find it in the fecal matter of ancient peoples, it’s a certain sign of cannibalism.”
I stare at him, knowing the horror must be evident on my face.
“We’re in a side canyon, off Coldwater,” he tells me. “Well off the main roads. If that was a major quake, it’ll be quite a while before anybody gets here to help.”
“If?” I look at the wooden beam piercing his middle. “I’d say it was pretty damn major.”
“Then we’re here for the duration,” he says. “Hungry yet?”
I storm from the room, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response. My head aches from the drugs he’s given me and the lack of something to eat in my belly. Ever since I was a little kid, my moods have always been dictated by mealtimes. If I don’t eat, something hormonal or blood sugar related gets set off inside me and I turn into a real bitch. I channel that feeling now, hoping the hungrier I get, the better able I’ll be to do whatever horrible things need doing.
I hate to admit it, even to myself, but in that room with the raw, bloody meat smell of him, my mouth filled with saliva. It’s not to the point yet that I’m bent over, crippled with hunger. But it will reach that point if I’m not rescued. Even if I can call, it could take hours or days to be freed from this basement.
“Okay!” I cry, so furious that I think about going back in there and finishing him off. “Okay, you bastard, I’ll watch one of your motherfucking movies! If that’s what you want, I’ll do it!”
My hands shake so much it takes me a few tries to get the DVD in the player. Once it’s in, I punch Play and sit back in his studio chair to watch.
The screen starts out black, but then a light comes on and shines on a girl in a chair. At first I think it’s me. She’s got my round face, my brown hair, a little shaggy, parted in the middle. My blue eyes. My figure, a little on the thick side, heavy boobs. And she’s got that collar around her neck, as I do. But the white top she wears is different from the one he dressed me in. As the camera moves closer, I see that she’s not me, after all. He’s got a type, like most guys, and we both fit that mold. She might be prettier than I am.
Dark Duets Page 29
