“What’s behind door number one?” he shouts.
Legs emerge. Boots find footing on the ladder’s rungs. This has to be the person that rushed me from the bushes when I arrived at the Wymer house. Hit me with the hammer or rock. There was another person, wasn’t there?
For some reason, Lola’s face floats in my mind.
Lola covered in blood.
Lola looking crazy.
What is happening? I’m losing it.
The legs are slender, the waist thin.
Slowly, the person descends. I can’t see the back of their head because they wear a hood.
I look toward the Mannequin Man. He’s smiling ear to ear.
The person coming down the ladder skips the last few rungs and hits the floor with a thump.
“How does it go up there?” the Mannequin Man asks.
“Quiet. So far,” replies the stranger.
But it’s not a stranger. I recognize that voice. I recognize it all too well, and I feel my heart breaking as the person turns.
It’s Lola.
She was the one who hit me.
Thirty-Six
I can’t find words.
I’m just staring at her, the woman whom I’ve thought I’d fallen in love with.
Lola.
“Is your name really Lola?” I say.
She clenches her jaw. She won’t look at me, either, almost like she’s embarrassed.
“No, that’s not my real name.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you. I think you understand. Right?”
I say nothing.
“Oh! Such drama,” the Mannequin Man says. “Girl falls in love with girl. Girl gets kidnapped, and Melanie plays the hero. Only…a twist! It’s all a ruse. Beautiful, mysterious girl is actually working with the bad guy all along. She’s his sister. There is no love for Melanie. You got played, my dear.”
Lola—not Lola—steps closer to her brother. He puts an arm around her and kisses her on the side of the mouth. His lips linger too long.
“My beautiful sister,” he says. “You did such a good job. And who knew you were so strong?” He looks at me. “She hit you with that wrench, you see, and she didn’t hold back. You were out for almost an entire day.”
“They’ll be looking for me,” I say, trying to make it sound like a threat.
“Of course they will. Your mother and father will gather followers and volunteers, they’ll be on the local news, a statewide manhunt will come after. You’ll be known nationwide! But they’ll never find you, Melanie. Not here.” The Mannequin Man grins, as my mother would say, like the cat who ate the canary.
And worst of all, he’s right.
They won’t find me. It was all a setup. I have been played.
I look at Lola, feel the hurt lingering in my eyes. “I can’t believe it,” I say.
She won’t look back.
“You did well, sister. Don’t let her tell you any different,” the Mannequin Man says. “Now, leave us. I have work to do.” He gives her a gentle pat on the backside.
She smiles at him.
What the fuck is going on? What have I gotten myself into?
Then she’s climbing the ladder again up to the hatch, where she opens it and the smell of the outside world floods in with the muted sunlight. The hatch closes with a thud, like the slamming of a casket’s lid, and I know I may never see the day again.
The Mannequin Man grins at me.
“So where shall we begin, Melanie?”
I don’t reply.
“Let’s see,” he says. “Your arms are a little short, same as your legs. You have too much hair. All over your body, in fact. I’ll have to glue or stitch your mouth shut, cut out the eyes, shear off the ears, remove the nipples. My, oh my, so much to do and so little time.” He titters and skips toward his work bench. A drawer opens with a squeak. He pulls out what looks like a toolbox. My heart is thundering in my chest.
God, please help me.
From the toolbox he pulls out a tape measure, the kind you see at boutiques like Cocoa’s. Stretches the tape measure the length of my right leg, then my left. His face is all concentration. Tongue sticking out from between his lips, nostrils flared.
“Shocked, huh?” he says. “About good ol’ Lola.”
I don’t answer. Of course it’s a shock. I don’t think it has fully hit me yet, but now I want nothing more than to curl up into a little ball and sob.
I’m beaten.
Broken.
Damned.
I have to accept that.
“Yeah, she’s quite the actress, isn’t she?” The tape measure goes back into the toolbox. He brings out a white instrument and begins pinching my thighs with it. A body fat indexer. “Hmm, hmm.” He jots the numbers down on a little notepad. I could put up a fight. But I don’t. What’s the point?
Everything I know is a lie.
“I told her she should’ve moved to New York City, star on Broadway, get noticed, go on to Hollywood. She’s so perfect. She belongs on the silver screen,” he says, pinching the other thigh, jotting down more numbers, and then pinching my stomach and my upper arms.
“Does she even like women?”
It’s his turn not to answer. He looks up at me, slightly peeved that I’ve broken his concentration.
“I guess not,” I say.
“Roll over.”
I obey. What other option do I have? I’m too weak to fight back. I’m possibly concussed. He has a short fuse, I know that, I’ve already seen it in the few minutes I’ve been awake.
Awake.
I wish I wasn’t. I wish this was a dream.
On my side now, I expect a pinch from the indexer. None comes. The panties I’m wearing are high-waisted, cheeky. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He’s…just staring at me, at my ass. My skin crawls, my stomach clenches.
I see a bit of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth, and his dead eyes glaze over.
Suddenly, he flicks his gaze back to my face. I turn away as quickly as I can, but it’s not quick enough.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “You’re very beautiful.”
The indexer continues its pinching. So hard this time that I grit my teeth, tears flooding my eyes.
“I have to go now,” he says.
I turn around.
“But you stay put. Okay? Then we’ll have our little fun.” He gets up, packs the tools away back into the desk.
A single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling by the ladder. With a click, he turns it off as he climbs to the hatch. The outside world floods in, so sweet, I can almost taste it.
“Help! Help me! Help—” I shout, but my pleas are cut off by the thud of the door.
And I am alone in the dark.
Thirty-Seven
Time goes on. How much, I don’t know. It could be hours or days. The seconds stretch on like the blackness around me, which seems a living thing.
My eyes have only slightly adjusted to the dark, just enough for me to make out the torsos across the way. He didn’t cover them back up. Why would he? He said it himself: he wants me to suffer.
Well, I am suffering.
My head pounds, my body aches. I hunch as close as I can to myself, but the chains are restricting, too tight. I feel blisters forming under the cuffs around my wrists and ankles from moving too much.
So I quit moving.
And I doze. Not from being tired, but because my body is shutting down, giving up. The blow to my head, which I now know was from Lola or whatever her real name is, was too much.
My eyes close.
I hope I don’t wake back up. I hope I die before he can do whatever he plans on doing to me.
I do wake, though. Sadly.
I awake to the sound of the screeching hatch and I don’t have the energy to scream again.
The Mannequin Man comes down the ladder, turns on the overhanging light.
A snatch of starlight before the hatch closes.
He is wearing stylish overalls over a checkered shirt. He looks like a chic farmer. His hair is gelled back. Face is still pale and splotchy with makeup.
“Good evening, Mel,” he says. “You look well.” He offers a sarcastic grin. In his hands he holds a black drawstring bag and an orange extension cord, rolled up. He begins unraveling the cord, plugs it in near his work bench.
I don’t know what he’s doing. Why does he need an extension cord? Is this the part where he saws me apart? Where he does his rearranging?
I push myself up against the cold stone wall. Part of me hopes I’ll tumble right through it and into freedom.
Delusion.
Now he opens the bag. His hands are shaky. They’re always shaky, it seems. I expect to see a bone saw, the kind brain surgeons use to open skulls. From the bag, he doesn’t pull out a saw, however, but clippers instead. Professional clippers hairdressers use.
“What are you doing?” I say. I stand up. It’s not easy, my legs are wobbly, prickling. I almost lose my balance and fall but grab ahold of one of the chains for support.
He unrolls an apron from his pocket, puts it over his head. Can’t mess up the nice threads.
“Don’t move,” he answers. “It’ll be easier if you don’t move. Less pain.”
He comes back over to me. There’s a small, wheel-like contraption just out of reach from where I’m chained up. He twists it around and around. The chains are pulled taut so I can’t move more than a couple of inches, arms held above, my heels pressing against the cold stone at my back.
He locks me in this position.
The pain in my wrists and ankles is unbearable.
He grins.
He flicks the switch of the clippers.
The lightbulb buzzes as the electricity down here stutters, dims, brightens.
He grabs my face with a firm hand. Well-manicured nails dig into my cheeks. I try turning away from him, but he’s strong. Too strong for a man of his stature and build. He can’t weigh more than one-fifty, and he’s about my height, five-seven.
“Hold—still,” he grunts.
The clippers buzz over my head, get caught in the skin. Veins pop from his arm as he rakes it. I’m crying out in pain, screaming, trying to move. Can’t.
It hurts, but it hurts more emotionally.
There’s a twinkle in the Mannequin Man’s eyes as he makes another pass over my scalp. Hair falls around my bare, bloody feet in large clumps. I hardly see them because my eyes are swollen with tears.
Besides, I don’t want to see them. My blonde locks.
I stop struggling and the pain lessens, but not by much. He’s no professional hair stylist. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to trim the length before you buzz it, which he doesn’t do. Strands tangle within the blades, pull, yank, rip. My scalp burns.
“Good, good,” he mumbles. “So good.”
From between the bricks, cold air tickles my scalp. It’s such an odd feeling. My hand comes up to brush at the stubble. Before I can touch it, the Mannequin Man hits me across the face with his knuckles. I collapse and blood fills my mouth, metallic-tasting.
“Don’t! Not yet, I’m not done,” he says.
The clippers turn off; he unplugs the cord and wraps it up, and then puts it in the bag. From the bag, he then pulls out a straight razor.
“Stay down.” He runs a finger along the edge of the blade and shows it to me. Blood wells in a thin line. He lets it drip-drip-drip, splashing the floor. Then he smears it under my eyes. I don’t move because the razor is so close to me. One twitch and I could be blind or with a smile slashed across my throat. “This is the fun part.”
Back to the bag, he retrieves a can of Barbasol. He squirts it into his palm and slaps it onto the top of my head. It’s freezing. Fingers knead my bare scalp.
I am crying, sniveling. Lost.
The razor scrapes across my head, from near my eyebrows to the nape of my neck.
“I love that sound, don’t you?” he says. “The chirk, chirk, chirk.” He starts laughing, the blade still pressed against my skin. He’s trembling.
Pain. A bright burst of cold pain. Something warm runs down from my forehead, drips on the floor. It’s blood.
He’s cut me.
“Oopsie,” he says. “I didn’t mean to do that. That may leave a scar. That’s okay. Makeup can do wonders, don’t you think?” He smiles, tilting his head to showcase his own makeup, which is not doing much to disguise his hideousness.
The shaving continues. He goes over the spot of sliced skin so many times, I lose count.
When he’s done, he moves to my eyebrows. I close my eyes tight, knowing it won’t matter. The blade could go through my lids with only the gentlest of pressure.
“Good, good, little kitten,” he says. “You’re going to make a great doll. You’ll be so perfect.”
Then he shaves my arms, my legs, my pubic hair. I remain stock-still, too afraid to move.
As still as a mannequin.
Thirty-Eight
Day four or five, I think. Without seeing the sun, I can’t say for sure.
I haven’t seen him since he shaved me. I am so cold.
They have not fed me. He has only given me a small amount of water. When I have to relieve myself, I go on the floor, as far away from my little corner of this dungeon as I can stretch, but the urine still finds its way toward my feet.
As sickening as it is, I relish the warmth.
In the darkness, I run my tongue over my teeth. They feel fuzzy. The cuts on top of my head and at my temple throb with pain. I can only imagine what they look like. Infected, black and blue, starting to scab.
Day four or five, and Klonowski hasn’t found me. Wouldn’t they be looking for Lola, too?
Time goes on, stretches for an eternity.
What could be hours later, the hatch opens with a creak.
Dainty legs descend the steps. The light brightens the room.
It’s Lola.
She has a plate and a glass of water. As she turns around and looks at me, I can see the disgust on her face.
I haven’t seen her since the Mannequin Man told her to reveal her secret.
She doesn’t look as beautiful as I remember. Her face is pale, her hair is sleep-tousled but not in a cute way, she looks gaunt like she hasn’t been eating or resting.
“Hi,” she says, offering me a half-smile. “I brought some food. It’s not much. My brother says you’re not allowed to have too many calories. He’s making you perfect.”
On the plate sits two pieces of dry toast. The glass of water is murky, bits of dirt and grit swirling around inside. Green mold has grown along the edges of the bread. I don’t want to eat the toast or drink the water, but I have to. I’ll die if I don’t. I’ll pass out and wake up on the Mannequin Man’s worktable as he cuts, rearranges, and stitches me into his masterpiece.
“I like your new look,” Lola says.
“Why?”
“Because it’s…different—”
“No, why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why me?”
She shrugs, as if holding a woman against her will and preparing to make her into a mannequin is the most normal thing in the world. I notice she has the ring back on her finger, the one that was in the letter. They must’ve taken it from my car after they hid it.
“Because I love him.”
“I thought you loved me,” I say. “I loved you—I do love you.”
It’s a lie. The sight of her brings up nothing but disgust. I fell out of love with her the very second I saw her descend the ladder for the first time and the realization of her part in this hit me. But that doesn’t mean I never loved her.
“You don’t love me,” she says. Then, with a hint of uncertainty, “Do you?”
I nod. It’s not easy because of the stiffness in my muscles and joints, and because thinking about loving this monster of a woman makes me sick to my stomach.
“Well, you’re crazy,” Lola says. “I don�
�t love you. I love my brother. He’s taken care of me my whole life, ever since Momma died. He takes care of me now, and he always will.”
“What he does is sick, Lola. You know that, right?”
“My name isn’t Lola.”
“What is it? What’s your real name?”
Lola shakes her head.
“I’ve told you everything about me, Lola. And I wasn’t lying. Everything I shared was the truth.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was. I promise. I pinky-promise.” I extend my pinky and hold my left arm out as far as it will go. Not far. Lola looks at it, her gaze ping-ponging from it to my face. She won’t make direct eye contact.
I’m close. I’m so close.
She can lie to herself, but I know she loved me—or at least enjoyed our time together.
That’s what I’m banking on; that’s my only hope. I won’t be able to break free from these chains without her help. I won’t be able to see the light again without an ally.
“Liar. Liar. Liar!” Lola shouts. “He said you would do this. He said you would try to get in my head. Well, stop it. Stop it right now, Mel!”
“Lola,” I say, allowing myself to tear up. This is not hard in my case, when you’re a prisoner and your body has forgotten what it’s like to be free of pain. “I’m not lying. I love you. I’ve never loved anyone before like I love you.”
She slaps her hands over her ears. “Shut up! Shut up! You’re gonna wake him and he’ll be so mad, so angry, if he knows I’m talking to you. Shut up!” She turns and runs toward the ladder, climbs it, leaves the room. The hatch closes. The light remains on.
This isn’t much, but I guess it’s a small victory.
Thirty-Nine
I stare at the bread for hours. The water, too.
Plastic Girls Page 12