Stolen Flame

by D W Marshall

  What am I going to say to her about my absence? What will be enough for her? What will be too much for Mason?

  Too much time has passed.

  Still, I have to do this. This is my home and we are the only family the other has. With shaky hands, I depress the bell and I wait.

  It feels like forever.

  My chest feels heavy and tight. My body is teeming with nervous energy, so much that my hands tremble. She’ll have questions. How will I answer them? Mason was dead serious when he made his threat to us: “Breathe a word of your whereabouts, or what took place here, and you will see me again.”

  It’s not like I even know where I was. He made sure to blindfold me during my arrival and my departure. Mason did his job well. No one used their real name in The Chamber, not even me. So what would I say? There is nothing that I could add that would help anyone locate the place.

  What Mason doesn’t know is that he has nothing to worry about. All I want to do is forget about my year of being passed around from stranger to stranger as they used my body for their own pleasure. I am the last person who would run around broadcasting what I went through. The sooner I can put it all behind me, the better—but, somehow, I know I will never forget.

  When the door flies open my mother and I just stare into each other’s green eyes. She looks older. Her eyes lack their usual brightness. Her blonde hair lacks its usual luster. I probably look too good. During the last year I was kept in impeccable shape and condition through regular spa treatments, my own personal groomer, and massages. That’s another thing I’ll have to explain to my mother. Of course, one would expect a kidnapping victim to look beaten or bruised, worse for the wear, not like she just stepped off a photo shoot.

  “Brinley.” The word is a whisper. She gazes at me like I’m a ghost from her past.

  I grab my mother into my arms. She folds into them and we both sob in the doorway. I don’t let my mother go for what feels like forever. I don’t want to. She is home. Seeing her, holding her, is my only proof that I am home and free.

  “Come on. Let’s get you inside, honey.”

  My mother takes my hand and doesn’t let it go. I follow her inside on unsteady legs and take a seat on the sofa because I lack the strength to stand at the moment. On my long plane ride home, I thought of all the things I would say to my mother. Somehow, all of those words have evaded me. I feel like a stranger, like a cloned version of myself. All of a sudden, I am a sci-fi experiment. I look like Brinley. I sound like her, too. I even have her memories. But something feels different, because I am not the same. I’m tarnished and forever changed because of The Chamber. How can anyone experience an entire year at the hands of a cunning and sadistic monster and not be ruined and broken? Even the strongest among the seven of us will struggle when she gets home.

  I gaze around the house where I grew up, and it pretty much looks the same as it did a year ago. My mother has always preferred a minimalist approach to decor. There’s a sofa, a television stand, a small flat-screen television, a bookshelf she made from recycled materials, and her abstract paintings adorn the walls. I remember when she first picked up painting. I teased her and said, “Just because you purchase a blank canvas and acrylic paints, it doesn’t make you an artist.” But looking around at them now, after a year of missing her and my home, I realize her paintings are masterpieces. They are to me because they’re an integral part of our home.

  My mom is a hippie who has always believed that a house is meant for eating and sleeping, and living takes place outdoors. Camping, hiking, biking, sightseeing, or gardening—any activity that gives us the opportunity to convene with nature—is what we should spend our valuable time doing.

  She returns with a glass of water. I hadn’t even noticed that she’d left the room. I take my time sipping my water and tasting it. I savor the simplicity of a drinking a glass of water in my home. I glance over at my mother and see that her face is wet with tears. Mine is, too. Suddenly, the water has to compete with the lump that has taken up residency in my throat.

  “I can’t believe you’re here!” she blurts out before taking me into her arms again. There is no coffee table to set my glass on, so I hold onto it and her. We cry big, sorrowful, relief-filled tears onto each other’s shoulders. “I am never letting you out of my sight again. Do you hear me?” She breaks our hold and begins checking me in earnest. “Where have you been? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “Define ‘hurt,’” I say, wiping my eyes.

  “Please tell me what happened, Brinley. Where were you?” She wipes her eyes.

  I take a deep breath and begin to tell the last story I ever want to repeat. The worst part is that I know this won’t be the last time I have to tell it. There will always be questions. The hardest part is figuring out the equal balance of what I can tell her without landing myself on Mason’s hit list, while keeping in mind that she’s a mother who has been without word from her child for a year.

  “I decided to go for a morning run near school,” I take a long draw of my water. “I know that I should have listened to Logan. He said it was not safe for me to be running alone, especially in Hollywood. But you know me. You always said ‘Stubborn’ was my middle name…. Mom, do you happen to have anything stronger than water?” I need liquid courage before I can keep going.

  “Sure, baby.” She pops up and quickly returns with a bottle of Pinot and two wine glasses.

  I guess we both need something extra right now. I take my full wine glass and practically down it. It only takes a couple of minutes before the alcohol makes me less anxious.

  “Like an idiot, I left my dorm and my friends, and I took off on a run toward the GPO by myself.”

  “The what?” Mom asks.

  “Seriously, Mom? The Griffith Park Observatory. I didn’t think anything of it, really. I mean, I always thought the freaks came out at night, you know? But that was the day I learned the freaks never sleep.” I take another long draw of my wine and finish it. My mother refills my glass. I don’t hesitate to take another sip. “I made it to the GPO in record time. I was feeling that high I get from running. Then I bent down to tie my shoe, and before I could get back to my feet again, I saw three men coming for me. I didn’t even have a chance to run, scream, or fight. They were on me before I could process what was happening. They put a cloth to my face and that was it. Lights out for me.”

  My mother finishes her first glass and pours another. Tears are rolling freely down her cheeks. I can’t visibly see her hands shaking, but I hear the bottle clank repeatedly against her wine glass.

  I continue. “When I woke up, I was on an airplane.”

  “Where did they take you?” Her voice catches on a sob.

  “I have no idea. I thought for sure I was headed to my death. I had no reason to believe otherwise. I mean, only psychos would kidnap perfect strangers. I just knew I was going to die and we’d never see each other again.” I pause and draw in two deep breaths. This is the tricky part. What I say from here on could get me into a lot of trouble if I believe Mason’s threat, and I do. “What I learned after I got off the plane ride was that death would have been the easy way out for me, Mom. Death would have meant peace. But when I got off of that plane, I never thought I would know peace again.”

  My mother tries to stifle her heavy sobs as they rip through her, but I can tell she has never been more scared than this moment, hearing my words. My living nightmare.

  “The place I was taken was a sex club for rich and powerful men. I was forced to work there, and…I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

  “Oh my god! Oh my god!” My mother pulls me into her arms. Her cries are loud and frightened. “We have to call the police.” She squeezes me.

  “And tell them what?” I pull away from her so I can look her in the eyes. She needs to understand that calling or telling anyone is not an

  option. Especially the police. “The man who took us warned us that if we said anything, he’ll come after us.
He said we wouldn’t be safe anywhere on earth. He will make us suffer. He’s a dangerous man. Trust me. The men who take part in his annual chambers will do anything to keep this covered up. Let it be over. Isn’t it enough that I’m home?” I beg and plead with her.

  My mother grabs my arms and shakes me a little. “You listen here. I don’t give a rat’s hairy ass about this monster. He took you, kept you for a year, and made you do unspeakable things. He has to pay. He has to be stopped.” Her voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it.

  I jump up from the sofa. I have to get through to her. “This is a losing battle. You don’t want this. What if he takes me again? Just drop it, Mom! When I first got there he showed us videos. He watched us for two years before he kidnapped me. He’s probably watching me now. I have the money. I just want to forget.” Tears are pouring down my cheeks.

  I just want her to understand, I don’t want to look over my shoulder. I want to live my own life, free of The Chamber. Free of The Monster. I need to work at living my new life. I hit the reset button and now I need to find my new normal.

  “I just want to get past this, Mom.” I am exhausted.

  “What money, Brinley?” she asks.

  “Four million dollars,” I say. My voice is just above a whisper. I know she is going to freak out. I mean, if I was a mother and my daughter was telling me what I am telling her, I would freak out, too. “I know you have to call the police and tell them I’m home. I know they will want to talk to me and ask me questions. But I can only tell them the bare minimum.” I continue to speak in a low, unsure voice. “This is the way it has to be, Mom. It’s the only way I can be here with you.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” My mother jumps up from the sofa and starts pacing. “I don’t understand. Why would you have four million dollars?”

  I flop back down on the sofa. I bring my knees up to my chest and bury my face into them. At this point, the only way I can speak to my mother is from this position. Discussing any aspect of my time in The Chamber is exactly what I wanted to avoid. It was the most humiliating and embarrassing year of my life. I know that showing up on my mother’s doorstep, after being gone for a year with no word or communication, an explanation can’t be avoided.

  “I don’t know, Mom. We are talking about a crazy person here. He kidnapped seven of us, made us have sex with a bunch of rich guys for a year, then paid us millions for it. Crazy is not meant to be understood. Crazy seems to have the power to do whatever it wants.” I knew this would be difficult for her. How can I expect anyone to understand what I went through? I know—with the exception of the six other girls, my sisters—no one ever will. I’m not happy that I was paid, but I’m not going to give the money back. It won’t change what happened to me, or to any of us. I left a sex chamber a millionaire.

  The worst part of all of this is how confused I feel. When I first arrived at The Chamber I wanted to die—to curl myself into a tiny ball and fade away to nothing. But an experience like that changes you. The Chamber was nothing like I expected it to be. I wasn’t chained to a wall. I wasn’t kept in some dank, dark cell. I wasn’t beaten or drugged.

  It was quite the opposite. I made friends with the other girls. I had massages and manicures and movie nights. I had my own personal trainer and groomer. The only time I felt like I was in hell was when I had to perform sex acts with strangers who, by the end of the year, weren’t even strangers to me anymore. All of this knowledge, coupled with the money, makes me even more confused, and makes my experience even harder to fathom. Anyone I tell the full details of my story to would think I’m crazy, too. The first question that will spring forth in their minds will be, “Why did you stay?” As if I had a choice.

  Personally, I don’t know why Mason is worried about us telling anyone. I never want anyone to really know what happened within those vast walls.

  What would I say, anyway? Well, Mom, I had sex with thirty-five different men. Thirty-seven if you include the times that Mason had his turn with me, or the times I fell asleep in my Chamber, and my personal guard, Gabe, came to visit me. Why should I feel guilty about the money? I know it won’t buy me my sanity, but that much money will help me start my new life—especially when I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  My mother watches me with concern in her green eyes. I hope she can see me. I’m the same little girl who loved acting and making up stories since I was in grade school. I'm the same girl who wanted to finish college and travel to New York with my boyfriend, Logan, and attend Juilliard. And even though I am not quite as hippie as she is, I hope she still recognizes the me who saw the beauty in the mountains, the trees, and the ocean. I am praying that as she gazes at me with confusion and concern, I still exist in her eyes, because I may need her help to find myself along the way.

  When my mother scoots toward me on the sofa, I am surprised and relieved when she grabs me into the most loving and protective embrace I have ever felt. We both sob again in each other’s arms. She may never understand what happened to me, but she loves me, regardless.

  “We will get through this together, baby,” she promises. I am so overcome, I can only nod. There are no words.

  Mom calls the police and she agrees with me that I can tell them whatever I feel they need to know to keep us safe. I don’t mention the money to them, fearing it will raise too many questions that I cannot answer.

  I’m beyond exhausted; fortunately I manage to get by only sharing the bare minimum with the officers—the location from where I was snatched, the fact that everyone in the place I was kept used a fake name, that I only saw the outside for the first time today. I told them that I traveled a great distance by plane, but have no idea where I was being kept for the entire year. My mother sobbed quietly while I spoke to the officers, who could only tell me how lucky I am to be alive. I see a look on my mother’s face that worries me. It’s a combination of fear, pity, and sadness. She tries to mask it, but I catch a glimpse before she can turn away.

  One of the officers gave us his card in case I remember more. If only they knew just how much I remember. They also gave my mother some information on places I can go if I need emotional help. And just like that, they were gone. I hope I don’t receive any more visits from the police. I am willing to bury any memories of the last year. If I am lucky, my name and case will get filed away under unsolved crimes.

  My room looks just like it did before I moved into the dorm two years ago. I feel like I’m back in my last year of high school. My walls are plastered with the heartthrobs of that time and my many photo collages from high school. I was really into pastels my senior year. My room looks like an Easter basket exploded all over the walls and floors.

  All of my belongings from AMDA, the American Musical and Dramatic Academy, are back in place in my room. Damn, I had a sweet spot in the bungalows, too. I’ll bet my friends and teachers all think I’m dead. Whatever. I’m too tired to think about my life. I hope my mom calls Logan for me, if he is even still in Los Angeles. It was bad enough just popping up on her doorstep after all this time. I can’t do that to him. That thought frightens me. At least if she calls him first and gives him time to process the fact that I’m home, he won’t have to stare at me like a ghost come back to life when he sees me. As much as I can’t wait to see Logan, I fear the look in his eyes.

  What if he has moved on? He could have a whole new life, complete with a girlfriend, by now. What if he has a girlfriend? I can’t be upset with him if he does. It’s been a year. Snap out of it, Brinley. If he moved on there is nothing you can do.

  Today I will sleep and recharge. Tomorrow…life.

  When I stare down at my bed, my stomach becomes queasy. The light purple comforter thrusts me back to The Chamber and my life as Violet. I run into my bathroom and deposit what little I have in my stomach into the toilet. Closing the lid, I sit on top of it and run cool water into the sink. I don’t fight the tears that stream down my face. I have grown accustomed to crying this past yea
r. You will be okay, Brinley. It is just a color. It doesn’t define you. It never did. You are a survivor. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. I grab a towel, dampen it, and wipe my face. I gather myself, walk back to my room, and remove the comforter. I drop it in a heap in the hall outside of my room and shut the door on any memory it might force me to recall of Violet.

  I pull a quilt from my closet, wrap up in it, and lie on my bed. Right away, I feel the pull of sleep. My body is spent from a very emotional reunion. I am almost out when my mother knocks on the door.

  “Honey. Sorry to disturb you, but I saved these for you. I knew you would come home to me.”

  I glance up and see that she has a stack of journals.

  “I planned to give them to you for your birthday last year. I know how much it helped you to write in them when Dad died. I just thought maybe…”

  I sit up in my bed and take the journals from her hands. She plants a kiss on my forehead. After everything, being home still doesn’t feel real. I think I’m numb. I stack the journals on my bedside table. “Thanks, Mom. I think I can use them.” She’s right, and she knows me well. When my father died a year after he was stricken with cancer, my journals were the only thing that kept me sane. I let it all out on paper—the anger, the fear, the pain. I did the same in The Chamber.

  “Would you rather talk to a professional?” she asks.

  “How about I try these first, Mom?”

  “Okay, baby. What do you want me to do with the comforter? Was it dirty?”

  “Throw it away. I don’t like purple anymore.”

  “Will do. Let me know if you need anything.” She heads for my door. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.”

  I think I’m asleep before she closes the door.

  Chapter Two

  One by one, we are named—branded like cattle. We’re all given names of colors or objects that represent a color. Raven, Sunshine, Flame... The Monster has literally stripped us down to nothing, destroying our souls and essence.