by Lily White
Still trying to avoid the topic of her son, I asked a question to appease my curiosity. "What was it like in medical?"
"Worse than on stage. They don't give you anesthetic as they stitch you up. I think I screamed louder there than I did when I was raped."
Remembering back, I chose not to remind her she hadn't really screamed that much. The electric shock and razor lined gag prevented it.
"Do you think we'll live through this?" she asked, her voice soft and timid.
"I don't know," I answered honestly.
More silence passed and I thought she'd fallen asleep. Hating how cold the floor was against my skin, I decided to get up and move to the cot - not that the cold steel would be any better.
Before I could move, Melanie's voice floated through the air again. "Did you recognize who the director was by any chance?"
My weight shifted over the concrete. "What do you mean recognize him? He looked like a monster to me."
It was like music every time I heard her soft laughter, like a velvet lie draped over the skin to hide the truth of the razor being dragged across our lives.
"You must not get out much. He is a monster. I agree with that." Drawing in a deep breath of air, she released it slowly. "But I also recognize him as someone else. I think he's Ethan Cole."
"I don't know who that is."
She spoke slowly, taking a breath between every third or fourth word she managed to say. "Only one of the best directors known to man. How do you not know? He's directed some of the most popular horror movies and thrillers that I've seen. He was a genius, but then he just disappeared. People thought he ran off to live rich and happy in the Caribbean. Other people wondered if he'd committed suicide or had been committed to some mental institution. I always wondered what happened to him. He was always so strange, yet fascinating."
Melanie's voice was almost reverent on the last few words, admiring a man who had her tortured and raped so he could film it.
"Guess you can stop wondering. We both know now." In afterthought, I added, "I wish I didn't"
"Yeah," she agreed regretfully. "Me too."
EMMA
I was not-so-gently woken later that evening by a guard banging the butt of his gun against my steel cot. My eyes shot open, my body curling in on itself tighter. No matter what position you laid in on the cot, it was impossible to get warm. The guard's intrusion only made me curl more, made me brace myself for a violent assault.
"Get up. You're wanted elsewhere."
Being half asleep doesn't help the mind process information. Being practically frozen doesn't help much either. I'm sure many of the women trapped in these cages would have gotten up immediately, would have pushed to their tired feet and plodded along behind the guard to whatever destination awaited them. But with my exhaustion, my lack of warmth, and with my renewed adrenaline beginning to trickle into my veins, I didn't simply get up. I asked a question.
"W - where?"
The butt of his gun slammed into my side, blunt trauma against my hip, shocking pain traveling up nerve endings that were already tight and screaming against the unbearable cold. Unable to contain the agony ricocheting like a barrage of bullets inside me, I opened my mouth to release that pain on a high pitched, deafening scream.
The guard wasn't impressed. He simply waited for the sound to end before hitting me again. And again. And again.
Slow. Without concern for breaking me. Without remorse for treating another human being like an abused, mangy animal, the guard finished his blunt assault with the butt of his gun to wrap his fingers in my hair, drag me from the cot and drop me to the cement floor so that the fall would force the agony to explode out from the opposite side of my body and mingle with what was already there, leaving me drowning.
"It doesn't matter where. Just get up and follow me."
Although I knew that at least five other women were in the nearby cages, none made a sound. None cried out in my defense. None so much as shuffled their feet over the concrete or shifted over their steel beds. Quiet as a mouse, each one was too caught up in their own fear to make a single noise in defense of me. I was on my own, even though I was surrounded.
The guard stepped forward to grab me again, but I moved in time to avoid the hit. I pushed up to my feet even though my legs were numb and were barely able to carry me, even though each step across the cold, concrete floor felt like jagged rocks were cutting into the soles of my feet.
He led me down the dark winding halls, past the cells, further until the bars were no longer and I was being closed in by solid walls on either side of me. We reached the door with the electronic lock and he ordered, "Turn around and press the front of your body to the wall."
I did as he said without complaint, only to have him shove his hand against my head so that my face smashed against the concrete. While holding me in place, he pressed the sequence of numbers that would unlock the door, the pneumonic hiss sounding as his fingers gripped into my hair to drag me through into another set of halls.
Had we turned left, we would have approached the showers with their warm, gossamer steam, but instead we turned right, not that it looked any different than what I'd already seen. More walls, more concrete floors, more desolation and mazes leading me deeper into the heart of this Hell.
Not bothering to pay attention, I followed like the good little prisoner, my arms wrapped over my naked chest, my legs shaking with each step I took forward.
Left. Right. Right. Left. Ending at another fucking door. Where did this one lead? What nightmare would I find? I wondered if death waited behind that door. How much torture would I endure before my spirit slipped away and escaped my body?
Would it be better than the cold of the cages? Or would I be trapped forever in this place watching silently as more spirits sprung loose to stand beside me?
The door opened, but instead of a stage, there was only a large desk with a well dressed man standing behind it. "Come in. Close the door behind you."
Assuming he was speaking to the guard, I waited for the large, broad man to step inside, but he shoved me around him and slammed the door behind me. I was alone with the director. Alone with Ethan Cole.
His cold grey eyes scrutinized me, dedicating to memory each feminine curve, each smudge of dirt and blooming bruise on my body. A sound of disapproval burst from his lips before he motioned toward a chair facing his desk. "Take a seat."
Eyeing the plush leather seat, I actually worried about messing it up with the state of my body. Was I bleeding? Would the dirt smudge? Would he get angry that I damaged the expensive looking guest chairs that perfectly complimented the old world style of his office? The crackling of wood from the far right of the room caught my attention. A large fire roared in the hearth, the warmth reaching out to comfort me, its dancing light reflecting off the polished shine of the leather guest chairs.
How messed up was that? Here I stood before a man who was stealing women to film their rapes and deaths, and I was worried about messing up his furniture.
"I'm dirty," I whispered in excuse for not doing as he told me. Daring to peek up at him, I watched as an eyebrow arched over his eye, as the corner of his lips twitched with humor.
Smooth. Cultured. Elegant to a point of inviting, his voice swept in on a baritone wave to fill the silence between us. "If you think I'm worried about a three hundred dollar chair, you must not have been paying attention today. Your little outburst during filming already cost me tens of thousands of dollars." A pause and then, "Sit. I'm sure you're exhausted."
Something was wrong with my mouth. It didn't seem to understand that I was facing death himself. "I'd probably be less exhausted if I didn't have to sleep inside a frozen cage."
His brow arched again. "Do you have any sense of self-preservation?"
"Apparently not," I answered, more to myself than him.
His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "Take a seat, Emma."
My eyes shot up to his. "How do you know my name?"
<
br /> Without breaking our stare, he reached down with long, elegant fingers to snatch something from the surface of his desk. Still watching me closely, he held it up. I was the one to finally look away, to drag my gaze to the laminated driver's license he held.
"Emma Hart," he said, "Age 22. Height five foot nine. Resident of Boston, Massachusetts where I assume you were snatched away. Apparently, you're also a safe driver and an organ donor. It's too bad that won't be happening. I'm sure you could have helped many people in your death."
When I didn't respond, he spoke again. "You're also a Scorpio. I'm a Leo. The sex would be fantastic, but as emotional lovers we would be a terrible match."
My brows pulled together in confusion. The man was about to kill me after having horrible things - violating things- done to my body, and he was discussing our astrological compatibility? What alternate dimension was this?
"Are you planning on raping me before having me killed?"
He dropped the license onto the desk. "No," he answered without emotion, "I don't fuck actresses."
"I'm not an actress."
"You are now. Sit."
Crossing my arms over my chest instead, I eyed him. Two could play this game. "Ethan Cole. Director. You disappeared and everybody thinks it's because you're insane. Apparently, they're right."
His head snapped in my direction. "Where did they find you? At the top of a building about to leap? It's like you want to die."
"I'm sure a quick death would be better than whatever film you have planned for me."
Cursing under his breath, he moved to his executive chair with a long, sure stride, taking his seat without so much as glancing at me. "If you don't want to sit, that's your choice. As for me, I'm exhausted after a long day and I'm sick of being on my feet. Excuse me for being rude, but I'm not in the mood to play games with a child. Sit or don't sit. I don't give a fuck. But you will listen to what I have planned for you, and you will have a choice once you understand what you're facing."
It was my turn for my head to snap in his direction. "You had me abducted, raped, stuck in a shipping container to cross the ocean, then had me escorted into a building to be stripped naked, beaten with butt of a guard's gun, forced me to watch a woman be tortured and raped, and another woman almost killed, and you are now asking me to excuse your rudeness for sitting while I stand?"
"I didn't order your first rape," he said matter of factly. "And the woman was killed. Not almost. Although her death was meaningless to me because you ruined the film with your outburst."
My eyes widened, breath dragged in harshly by my lungs. "You killed her?"
"I didn't, someone else did. But that's not the point of this conversation. You're here to find out about the film you'll be making bright and early tomorrow. I'm here to let you in on the twist I have planned. If you're up for it, that is."
"For the film?"
"For the twist. Do you remember the man that raped you after abducting you?" His probing gaze flicked up to me, his expression questioning, but not harsh. There wasn't a line to be found on his face, only the dusting of dark stubble across his skin. The stubble suited him, and I hated to admit that. Nothing should suit this monster except for a knife in his back or a deep, gushing head wound from where someone bashed his skull with a hammer.
"The one who used me, you mean?"
His lips tilted up, a dimple indenting his cheek from the movement. "You were paying attention after all. Funny you should remember that and not my repeated warnings to keep your mouth shut while I filmed."
Indignation flooded me, heating my body so that the icicles that had formed on my heart thawed and dripped down into my churning stomach. Each drip only made my stomach hurt worse. "How can you smile and be charming? You're a monster that hurts women-"
"I've never harmed anyone."
"You shot a woman right in front of me!"
"I didn't shoot her. A guard did. And now we're back to you not paying attention. Perhaps your attention is selective."
"Perhaps it wouldn't be if I weren't trapped in Hell."
"This isn't Hell," he answered mockingly, "it's a studio. And it's my turn to ask a question. How is it possible that you're trapped in what you call Hell, with a man you refer to as a monster, and yet you can stand there and talk back like there won't be consequences?"
"Because I know I'm a dead woman already."
"You look alive to me. And it's the reason I've chosen you for this particular film. Congratulations, Emma Hart. You've become my newest muse. Aren't you glad you decided to talk back?"
That shut me up, my lips slamming closed as my teeth snapped together.
"Finally, you've learned self-preservation. Unfortunately, it's too late. Take a fucking seat."
My body withered into the chair. With my adrenaline tapped out, I lost the ability to fight. Dizzy and screaming inside, I peeked out at Ethan from beneath my heavy lashes, my eyes narrowed toward a face that was deceptively beautiful. I hated him. Hated that face. And wanted nothing more than to shred it and dance over the fleshy ribbons.
He must have intuited my resentment, must have been amused by my simmering rage. "Do you remember the man who raped you or not? Were you paying attention when that happened?"
"Yes," I practically growled.
"Excellent, because you'll be meeting him again tomorrow on Stage B. I'll give him another opportunity to take what he wants while I film the encounter. I think the element of your hatred of him will only add to the emotional depth of the piece."
"I thought you ordered him to be killed."
"Like I said, you inspired me. I decided to use him in a different way. I'd congratulate you again, but you don't look too excited about sticking out in a crowd."
"Maybe I don't hate him," I suggested. "Maybe I hate you."
Fingers drumming over the surface of his desk with a crisp thump thump thump, he pulled his focus from whatever paper he'd been studying and locked his steely gaze on me. "I know you hate him. Any woman would hate a man who rapes her. I know that because I see it every day in their expressions. I hear it in their cries. I see their body language when a stranger approaches to get to know them intimately without their desire or consent. It's human nature to hate that. And I know it's true of you because I remember the way your body flinched when I found his dry cum where it had dripped down your leg. You can't hide from me, Emma. In time, I'll know you better than you know yourself. And it won't be a long time. I've practically figured you out already. Which is why you've been chosen for this film. Hate me all you want. Use it for your performance tomorrow, but don't try to lie to me. It's pathetic and tiresome."
"I hate you," I spit out.
"We've already covered that," he droned. "We should cover new ground because I'd like to end this conversation and get back to my work. Planning a new film takes time and I need to get the concept to my production crew."
Fingers gripping over the armrests of my chair, I spoke through clenched teeth. "I don't care about your stupid film."
"You should. Because it's life or death for you. I've given you a new option besides fuck or die. You now have the choice to kill. If you have it in you, excellent. You live to see another day. If not, you die after being raped by a man who won't give much of a fuck that's he's killing you in the process. I've already met the little punk who couldn't keep his dick in his pants. He's prepared to fight for his life. The question is: Are you?"
My heart stopped, my chest tightening at the absence of a sturdy beat. The tremor running across my body shook the chair beneath me. "What are you talking about?"
Shifting his position, he relaxed against his seat and kicked his expensive shoes up onto his desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. "What I'm telling you is that there will be a hidden weapon on stage. Only you will know where it is. Your male lead will attempt to rape you and kill you. It's your job to prevent that from happening. I believe there's a fire inside you that's not present in many women. I'd like to use that fire for
my personal gain."
"What if I refuse?"
"You can't. Either way, you'll be on stage, as will your male lead. If you decide to lie there like a log while he fucks you and chokes the life out of you, fine. I still make money off the film. If you decide to fight, even better. Either way, I profit. There's nothing you can do to prevent that from happening. If you die, oh well. I continue making films and you're a forgotten sack of flesh and bones disposed of with the rest of them."
This surprise meeting didn't make sense. Why warn me of what was to come? Why give a damn whether I live or die? He could have just left me in my frozen cage, had me ripped out in the morning and shoved on stage. Like what he'd done to Melanie before her performance in a film she had no desire to make, he could have stepped forward and whispered that a weapon was hidden in a certain place, could have given me permission to use it. Why the formality of this get together?
I asked him the question before realizing I was speaking. He lifted a brow in response, his lips pulling into a thin line, the corner kicking up with humor. Was there nothing that failed to amuse him? Remembering back to his reaction when I ruined his film, I thought, yes, he hates to have his work destroyed.
"I brought you in here because I wanted to personally tell you about the film's concept and give you the opportunity to decide what you will do onstage tomorrow morning. It's not an easy decision. Killing is not an easy feat. It takes drive, desire and a certain level of heartlessness and lack of humanity that many people don't possess. Most think it would be a simple decision, but you'd be surprised at the amount of people who have the ability to protect themselves, but freeze at the thought of taking another life. They die as a result, both on film and in reality. I'd like to record that moment. The decision of whether you're a predator or prey."
