by Marc Horn
9
‘Do not try to nurture sympathy, Elizabeth,’ I say, the next morning, as I walk up to her pitiful frame. ‘Your disobedience caused this.’
She stares lifelessly at me. I wrap the blanket around her rapidly shivering body and turn off the air conditioners. ‘Hopefully, you have now satisfied your masochistic needs, and this suffering needn’t continue.’
Elizabeth was slim when she arrived. Now she is too skinny. Her hair is greasy, her lips cracked, her skin oily and her eyes bloodshot. She is in poor health, but I feel no guilt. Some of this was necessary, but most of it she initiated. Had she not interfered with the process, then she would be warm and well right now, and she and I would be in consultation. If she dies, however, I will have achieved nothing. To the contrary, I will have foolishly jeopardised myself. I fetch some soup, rip off the tape, and tell her to lift her head. She tries to, but is too weak. I grab her chin and do it myself. ‘I told you, Elizabeth – I am in control. You cannot decide to die. Open your mouth.’
Her lips part and I tip a small amount of thin soup into the hole. ‘Drink it like water,’ I say, and she obliges, sluggishly forcing the food down her throat. ‘...I am too kind to you, Elizabeth. You do not deserve this hospitality.’ I tip more in her mouth. After five or so minutes she has finished the mug.
I decide that while I am here, I can dispose of the tape. She is conditioned enough for that. I place the filthy piece of tape on the floor beside her and fetch a jug of water and a cup. I remove the straps binding her wrists to the arms of her seat, lift up her arms and tell her to keep them in place. Then I balance a piece of wood on the arms of her chair.
‘You will keep yourself hydrated from now on.’
I sit the jug and cup on the wood. The plank is stable and both jug and cup are plastic in order to prevent suicide attempts. I am aware that Elizabeth’s state of mind is dangerous. She is dependent on me and knows of no solution to her crisis. Her fate is uncertain. The last thing she needs is glass.
‘Do not drop it,’ I say, and then I leave the basement.
When I return two hours later, I am pleased to see a slightly perkier Elizabeth who has finished the whole jug.
‘Good, Elizabeth.’
I pass her another mug of soup, which she quickly drinks.
‘You may not realise it, but already you have learnt things about yourself you would never have otherwise known. You have me to thank for that.’
She says nothing, but I forgive her for this.
‘You have grown used to your own revolting smell, haven’t you?’ She shakes her head. ‘So you are just tolerating it?’ She nods. ‘Well I have good news. I will allow you to take a shower.’
I see a tiny flicker of hope in her eyes.
‘I suggest you listen carefully, Elizabeth.’ She looks up at me. ‘I will show you to the bathroom. Once inside, you will take off your clothes, empty your faeces-ridden underwear into the toilet and then you will flush. Using that flush water you will clean your pants. You will not flush more than once, Elizabeth...’
She listens intently. She may be trying too hard to memorise my instructions. I make an effort to be more concise.
‘Then you will shower. You will spend no more than ten minutes in the bathroom. Everything you need will be in the cubicle.’
I will not warn her not to waste her time doing anything other than what she is told, as it is unnecessary. She is now under my control. She will not even think of escape.
I free her from the chair and tell her to follow me. She takes a considerably long time to find her balance. As she staggers forwards, her arms reach out for something to grab should she fall. I stay close, so that I can catch her if this happens. I cannot have a fracture or breakage meddle with my plans.
Elizabeth manages to make it to the steps. I clamp my hand around her bicep and help her up the stairs. As she gradually ascends, she relies on my strength more than I would like, but I force myself to accommodate her as otherwise she would take a nasty tumble. When we reach the bathroom, I release my grip and close the door behind her. The shower is already on. I am a fair man – she will not have to sacrifice time to find the correct temperature.
I wait outside. I removed the door lock, razor blades, cotton buds and anything she could have used to help her harm herself or escape. I hear her retch and then cry, and surmise that she must be cleaning her underwear. Then a flush, and moments later I hear her step into the shower.
Well, finally, I have brought an attractive girl home. I smile. At school, many of my peers had joked that I’d have to kidnap a girl to get her round my place. They were right. But only because the world is a bad place.
And where might they all be now? I know where two of them are – one has made me very rich, and the other is just where I want him.
‘How long?’ Elizabeth asks a few minutes later.
This pleases me. I check my watch. ‘Two minutes.’
When this time expires, I open the door. Elizabeth has the towel around her. She looks at me expectantly. I laugh.
‘I like your optimism, Elizabeth.’ I point at her heap of clothes on the floor. ‘Put them back on.’ I turn my back to her and hear her breathing quicken. ‘I recommend that you ring out your pants. Wet clothes are not comfortable.’
She starts to weep. I smirk. This is very amusing. I imagine her pants are not very clean.
‘You cleaned them, Elizabeth. You have only yourself to blame if they are still smelly.’
I hear the shuffle of clothes. ‘Even now, selfishness still consumes you. You believed I would furnish you with a change of clothes and that you needn’t therefore try too hard to clean up your mess. They were good enough for me but not for you.’ She doesn’t answer. Wise.
Clothed again, we return to the basement. Elizabeth sits back in her chair and I sit opposite. For now, I leave her untied.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Cold...sc-sc-scared...’
The timid creature before me looks very different. Like Rupert, her skin is not perfect. Though not bad enough to be acne, inflamed spots are visible. The mesmerising blue eyes I remember so well are somehow not as blue. It must have been a fancy make-up trick. Her lips are colourless, her skin pasty and strands of her hair are brittle. She is still a good-looking girl, but not nearly as beautiful as she was during our first encounter.
‘So this is the real Elizabeth,’ I announce. Vain to the bone, she bows her head. ‘...Are you ashamed of yourself?’ She shakes her head. ‘No one sees what is behind the cosmetics, do they?’
‘No,’ she whispers.
‘Except me. I see what you really look like.’
Her nervous flitting movements stop. Absurdly, she is interested in my opinion. I have much work ahead.
‘You are ugly, Elizabeth,’ I say sternly. ‘You are spotty, pale and unimpressive.’
She starts to cry. I cannot believe this.
‘You had the nerve to criticise my appearance, when your own beauty was fake.’
She presses her face into her hands and sobs. Amazingly, she believes she is unattractive. Reassuringly, she is probably as insecure about her looks as me.
‘Is that why you do not have a boyfriend, Elizabeth? Because you don’t want him to tell everybody what you really look like?’ She starts to squeal. Despite the life-threatening situation she is in, surface criticism strikes a nerve. ‘Since, like me, you do not have beauty, perhaps you should concentrate on what is beneath the deficiencies.’ Nothing. ‘There had better be something beneath, Elizabeth, or I will dispose of you.’
‘You’ll k-k-kill me anyway,’ she says bravely.
‘Nothing is definite,’ I say. ‘I don’t know where this will lead either of us.’
She looks up at me.
‘But it will be a better place.’
10
No woman has ever reciprocated the lust I felt for them. Prostitutes enjoy the money, not the sex. In fact, half of the prostitutes I have attempted t
o hire would not take my money. They would not even accept twice their fee. That must be a rare occurrence. It was always a particularly devastating one for me – if a prostitute had rejected me, then how would I ever find a partner?
In my most frequent fantasy, I am naked and caged. There are several cages in the dome-shaped room, each containing one unclothed male. Girls browse by our cages, as if choosing fruit in a supermarket. When they see something they like, they buy it. Once a man is sold, he becomes a slave to his owner.
It’s an exciting time when an attractive lady visits. And since I am naked, I do manage to appeal. Though to civilised people, dressed in their civilised clothes, I am repulsive, once undressed I have a proud asset. Unfortunately, since it is above-waist features that nurture a girl’s interest in what is below the waist, I never reach that stage and so this asset is never seen. But, in this dome, in my cage, all of me is visible.
Each of us has a statistic sheet pinned to the front of our cages, which details our measurements. Of course this gives the viewer vital information. Though there are pornographic films playing on TV screens in the dome, we cannot be aroused for the entire day. But should a viewer see a slave in a state of non-arousal, it seriously damages sale potential...
My loyalty and originality are also praised on my statistics sheet, which helps further boost my appeal.
It is always the same woman who pays for my release. She is exotic, tall, in her late-thirties, and very beautiful. And I am always sold to her after she sees me at my ‘best’. She takes me to her home and we have sex on her black leather sofa. For the first couple of times, I merely respond, as I am still in handcuffs, but after this my shackles are released and I consume myself with the feel of her body.
You would think such a life would satisfy, but after six or seven sessions I panic when I acknowledge that we have not kissed one another. I find that I want to kiss her more than I do anything else, but she will not allow me. She is not interested in intimacy, it is just the raw sex that she desires. When I try to talk to her, I am told to listen and not to speak, and reminded that I am just a slave. So all I have is a sexual relationship, and even then I start to worry that she will find someone to replace me.
My fantasies help me design my life. I need much more than just sex. Most men do, but they will not realise it until it is too late, when they are tied down, and all that is left is a grim acknowledgment that they are not fulfilled.
I know what I want. But it seems I cannot have it.
I think of Elizabeth. What would she think of my fantasy? No doubt mentioning my genitalia would greatly alarm her. Then I wonder why I am interested in her opinion. She has no substance. She is an image. She suffers down below to avenge me.
‘What can you cook, Elizabeth?’ I ask her, as I enter the basement.
‘Nothing,’ she mumbles.
‘I knew that... Are you hungry?’
‘Yes, I am.’
I see that she has finished her pitcher of water. The straps binding her waist and ankles to the chair do not appear to have been tampered with. I would have been most annoyed if they had been. I had decided against using the wrist binds and the piece of filthy tape while I am at home. This enabled her to feed and water herself.
‘Thirsty?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you enjoying your time here?’ I ask, just to inject some humour into the situation. She looks away. I take three eggs out of my pocket and place them on the plank in front of her. ‘This is your evening meal, Elizabeth. I thought you would appreciate some variety in your diet.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank yourself,’ I respond. ‘It is you who must prepare them.’
I let this fact linger, while I collect a kettle from upstairs. Back in the basement, I plug the kettle into an extension cable socket and position it in front of her. ‘The kettle is full. You have everything you need for your meal.’ She stares miserably at me. I can tell she is stronger. A couple of days ago such a scenario would have induced tears. ‘If you don’t mind, I will talk to you while you eat.’
She shakes her head. I nestle into the armchair and watch her. She stares helplessly at the three eggs. ‘Be mindful of salmonella poisoning,’ I say.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says, with a tiny hint of panic. She knows I am incapable of sympathy.
‘A hungry stomach is a good motivator.’
‘I’ll probably k-kill myself,’ she says.
‘You think your death is imminent anyway.’
She picks up an egg and leans towards the kettle. Her fingers fumble and the egg smashes on the floor. A pool of slimy, transparent goo spreads across the floor. She looks up at me in fear. She thinks I will make her eat it.
‘Eggs are fragile. Now you have one less. You will regret that.’
Carefully, Elizabeth places the remaining two eggs on the plank beside the kettle. Then she opens the kettle and sees that it is full. She lowers the eggs into the water and switches the kettle on. Then she sits back.
‘I have just watched a recording of last year’s X Factor. Are you a fan, Elizabeth?’
‘Yes...I am.’
‘During the auditions there was one hopeful young lady who desperately wanted to progress through the competition. They invited her family to the studio, and as a viewer I was treated to a thorough insight into her state of mind.’
Steam rises from the kettle. Elizabeth watches it like a hawk. I place a spoon and plate down on the plank.
‘Now this girl genuinely wanted to win more than anything. She believed she could. She believed she was a great singer with the necessary charisma to succeed.’
Elizabeth glances at the broken egg on the floor. I can tell it is distressing her. I will let her think about it for a few more minutes.
‘As it turned out, she was not a brilliant singer, but neither was she a poor one. The judges voted unanimously to reject her. She could not believe it, and, again, we witnessed her emotions – when the judges made their decisions, when it truly sank in, when she told her family, and additional glimpses over the next couple of hours. It was heart-breaking for her, that was absolutely clear. Her entire future had been crushed.’
Elizabeth studies me with caution.
‘Why, Elizabeth, must the viewer have seen that? She lost. I saw more of her than I did of all the successful contestants. But why?’
‘Because we like drama,’ she says.
‘Excellent! Yes! But more precisely it is misfortune that we like. Suffering. But why?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do. Degradation is entertaining. You know it is. It’s why you’re here.’
Elizabeth opens the kettle, still unboiled, and spoons out an egg. I knew she would not be able to last. She closes the kettle, sits the egg on her plate and hits it with the spoon. The shell cracks. She hits it again and the watery contents leak onto the plate.
I smile. ‘That doesn’t look edible.’
She closes her eyes, whimpers, and waits for the other egg. She blinks hard to resist tears.
‘ITV satisfied viewer needs,’ I explain. ‘We wanted to see her hopes dashed. We wanted to see her pain. In fact, we would have liked to see her suffer a heart attack. That would have been great entertainment.’
Elizabeth looks impassionate. The kettle has just boiled.
‘I, of course, felt for the girl. I wanted her to advance to the next stage. I know how it feels to be ridiculed, to be excluded.’ I grin at her. ‘You made me feel that way, Elizabeth.’
‘I’ve been punished for it,’ she says.
‘What you have experienced is just a tiny percentage,’ I whisper.
Elizabeth bows her head to conceal her wet eyes. A few minutes later, she opens the kettle, scoops up the egg and places it on her plate. She cracks it. It is hard. She removes the shell, takes a bite of it and spits it out as it burns her mouth.
‘You may be wondering what will happen to the m
ess you have made.’
She looks at me.
‘The rats will eat it,’ I say. ‘Do you not hear them scurrying about at night? They are rampant down here. You must have felt their fur brush against your feet, no?’
Silence. Just tears down her cheeks.
I take away the kettle, plate and spoon and leave.
11
For babies, the world is a curious, frightening place. Loving parents gradually nurture in them feelings of security and joy. And that joy is expressed in a perfect, natural way. That smile, that laugh, radiates. All the infant feels inside is happiness, and that is what the audience sees – pure, boundless, innocent joy.
Once the child learns to communicate, it stops. For then, they are taught to conform. What feels right is amended until it mimics what is considered right. That natural smile is discouraged, mocked, teased, until it looks normal. And this cruelty breeds inside its victim fear, confusion and self-pity. All because the victim obliviously opposes humanity’s ideals.
I had no chance. My shockingly misplaced appearance could not be corrected. It was not simply a lopsided smile that needed adjusting. I was destined to suffer a lifetime of isolation.
Parents, teachers, but mostly peers cause the damage. And you respond in one of three ways – either you self-destruct, strive to adapt, or it feeds your resolve. For me it was the latter, but only after twenty years of misery.
If the world was actually right, then we would all look very strange. People would walk the streets wearing bizarre expressions. Of course, this is through the poisoned eyes of modern man, who has been taught to interpret ‘strange’ as something which does not conform. In fact, people would look natural. Their reactions would be real and unforced. And the streets would be a happier, friendlier, safer place, a far cry from a life where it is instilled in everyone that they must look their absolute best at all times. Most of us apply this rule even when we look in the mirror – millions of people are incapable of seeing their normal look.
Though hideous, even I adjusted myself for Elizabeth and her friend when they approached me. And Rupert applied more effort than was necessary when he posed for the camera phone.