The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  He smiled to himself, as he flicked ashes into a ceramic tray. Claire shifted in her seat, her eyes on the door, on anything in the room that might pass for a weapon.

  "This girl I speak of, she was very kind hearted, but as I said, she had no clue. It took me no time to adopt her for my purposes, and soon she recognized her fate."

  He shook his head and ashed in the ceramic tray once more, his back turned toward her, eyes scanning the room, appreciating his great wealth.

  "Ultimately, I bored of her," he went on. "However, I decided to maintain ownership of her, so I instructed her as such and put her in a small apartment downtown, under guard of course."

  He put his cigarette out in the tray and turned to face Claire.

  "A time or two, she made attempts to free herself; however, these were met with brutal discipline that left her scarred and useless to any man save a pimp."

  He lifted his eyebrows and offered an empathetic frown.

  "Sadly, these events drove the girl to cut through her wrists with a large shard from a broken bathroom mirror."

  His eyes drifted to the floor for a moment while he thought. Then they trickled upward and bored forth, the pupils seeming to swell according to his will.

  "You see, she knew it was her only way out, and so she took it."

  He shook his head slowly.

  "There was simply no other way."

  A harsh knocking slammed against the front door, and Claire jumped in her seat. Dominic smiled and stood, dusting his slacks and then making his way across the room. He called through the door, and Lopez gave an earnest response. Dominic opened the door and stepped into the hallway, closing Claire inside.

  Immediately, she took to her feet and scampered to the kitchen. She opened drawers in search of knives, but she only found forks, spoons, butter knives and chop sticks. She slammed the drawers closed and ran down the hallway, checking door after door to find every one locked. Finally, she put her hand around a door knob and gave it a successful turn. The door opened to reveal a closet packed with heavy coats and a stack of cardboard boxes.

  She looked over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, then she tore one of the boxes open and put a hand over her mouth. Inside, there were pictures of women, their lifeless bodies sprawled awkwardly upon cement floors, wrists tied together, knife wounds decorating their skin, their vacant eyes staring off into nowhere, mouths agape.

  She heard the soft thwack of the front door unsealing and lost hold of the box, the photos flittering in the air and drifting in all directions. As the soles of his shoes clapped the tile entryway, she fell to her knees and grabbed the pictures in bunches, pushing them into the box and closing it shut.

  She jumped to her feet, but the shifting weight inside the box threw it off balance, and it slipped through her hands and crashed to the floor. His footsteps grew louder, thumping the tile with a growing urgency, like big wooden hammers pounding a hollow drum.

  In a panic, she bent over and gathered it all up, pushing it awkwardly into the closet and closing the door just as his tall, broad silhouette filled the space at the end of the hall.

  "I need to use the bathroom," she said, her eyes darting softly between his shadowed face and the carpeted floor.

  He approached her without speaking and took her arm with an unforgiving hand.

  "This way," he said, as he led her back up the hallway and into the living room. He released her and pointed to a door in the far corner of the room. "Fix your makeup while you're in there."

  She hurried to the bathroom and closed herself inside. She opened every drawer, but found only cotton swabs, linens and decorative soaps. She closed the last one and studied the mirror. A ragged, shaken woman looked back, her tears polluted with mascara, eyes bleeding ink. Soon she was sobbing, her hands on the countertop, body shaking.

  A fist smashed against the door and she flinched at its force.

  "Don't take all night," he said from outside.

  "I'll be right out," she said with a quivering voice not her own.

  As his footsteps faded, she straightened her face until the girl in the mirror looked more like the one from a few hours before. Finally, she put her makeup bag back inside her purse and opened the bathroom door.

  Outside, he sat on the couch with his back to her, a fresh cigarette dangling from his hand.

  "Come join me," he said.

  She moved slowly toward him, taking a seat on the other side of the couch.

  "Now, now," he said, as he patted the space immediately next to him. "Slide closer."

  She swallowed hard and slid over, his left arm engulfing her slight body. He smelled of cigarettes and too much cologne, and the stink of it nearly gagged her. He placed his hand over the top of her head and pressed her face against his chest.

  He began massaging her scalp, and as he did, his fingers gathered up bunches of her hair and twisted it into a firm handle.

  "Unbutton me," he whispered, as he exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  "No," she said, turning her head away.

  In a rage, he yanked her upward, nearly tearing the skin from her skull. She let out a shrill cry and tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

  "You don't ever tell me no," he whispered into her ear. "Do you understand?"

  When she didn't respond, he leaned in and took her earlobe between his teeth. She shrieked as he clamped down. He chewed the flesh until she thought she might pass out from the pain. Then he finally released and spit blood onto the lap of her dress.

  "Do you understand now?" He whispered into her ear.

  "Yes.”

  He re-gripped her hair and brought her closer.

  "Wait," she said. "Please, just let me have a drink first. Just one drink."

  He paused for a moment and then released her.

  "Make it quick."

  She got to her feet and turned to go, but before she'd made even a single step, he had her by the wrist.

  "Get me one too."

  He drank his glass empty and pushed it into her hand. She took it and made her way to the bar.

  While he sat smoking, she looked about for knives without success. And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw something metal give off a glittering sparkle of refracted light. She turned to see a corkscrew sitting atop the marble counter.

  She looked over to Dominic, but he was busy with his cigarette, his lips moving along with whatever stream of thought sifted through his drunken mind. Without hesitation, she took up the corkscrew and slipped it under her skirt, twining the coiled metal tip in the string of her underwear, where it crossed over the top of her left thigh. She filled his glass with scotch and returned to the couch.

  She handed him the glass, and he took it without looking, a little wrinkled smirk on his face. With a measured haste, she sat next to him, pulling her skirt upward in bunches to hide the bulging corkscrew handle. He placed his cigarette in the ashtray and downed his entire drink in three large swallows.

  Chills climbed her spine as she watched him drink, his throat bulging grotesquely as it consumed. When he'd drained the glass dry, he set it on the table and wiped the slick from his mouth. He turned and smiled, his bold eyes hungry and showing obvious signs of intoxication.

  "Where were we?" He said, as he palmed the back of her head and gathered up a bunch of her hair once more.

  He forced her down again, and this time she offered no resistance. But before he knew what was happening, she'd taken hold of him with all her strength, her fingers rooting in around his vulnerability, her grip like a vice.

  Wails of agony escaped his throat as she clamped down harder. He released her hair and pried against her hand, but as he lunged forward, she withdrew the corkscrew with her other hand and plunged it into the side of his neck.

  The shiny metal sunk into the fleshy tissue, a string of dark purple blood bowing upward and splashing against the white tile floor.

  He put both hands to his throat to stop up the bleeding, but it b
oiled out between his fingers as he gurgled up words. Claire scrambled to her feet and froze, the corkscrew still dangling from her hand, the coils congested with gore. Dominic staggered to his feet and stumbled toward her, his eyes flaring wildly, face painted with medley of fear, blood and rage.

  He came at her full bore and put his fingers around her neck, but the moment his hands left the wound, a red waterfall escaped, and he dropped to the ground, his handsome face pallid, eyes uninhabited.

  Claire looked down at his lifeless body, half expecting him to spring back up to his feet. She kicked at him, the toe of her high heel shoe digging into his ribs without conjuring any sort of response. Once convinced, she turned her attention toward the door, approaching it cautiously, her body trembling and heaving with great exasperated breaths.

  In the corner, a security monitor showed the goings on in the exterior hallway lobby. She watched Lopez pacing around outside, his hand in his pocket, a drowsy look on his face. Without hesitation, she worked the locks on the door and opened it. Lopez turned abruptly, his body straightening to prepare for the sight of his boss. But instead, he saw only a Claire, her dress and skin saturated in blood.

  "Please," she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "There's been an accident."

  Lopez hurried forward and looked inside the apartment, his face paling at the sight of Dominic Betancur. He reached into his jacket, but before he could grasp the butt of the gun, Claire drove the corkscrew into the back of his neck.

  This time, her aim was exact and Lopez collapsed to the ground as if his soul had been plucked free. She stood over him for several seconds, the corkscrew handle sticking out the back of his spine, as if it powered an enormous wind-up toy. She removed her shoes and scampered to the elevator. She pressed the button and waited, her heart thumping wildly as if it wanted out. Within seconds the door opened and the bearded elevator operator greeted her with a look of great worry.

  "Please," she said, her palms turned upward. "Mr. Betancur needs your help."

  Without thinking, the man fled the elevator and sprinted for the apartment. As he did, Claire took his place and furiously tapped the ground floor button. As if beckoned by some noiseless tone, the operator stopped and turned.

  "Hey!" He bellowed, the depth of his voice rugged and frightening. "What are you doing?"

  Claire frantically pressed the button several times more, as the thud of his boot heels grew louder and louder.

  "Get out of there!"

  At last the doors flashed out of their hiding places and raced toward one another; but before they met, the burly operator thrust his hand between. The doors met his arm and relented, the entryway opening enough for him to squeeze between, his big body swelling before her, eyes red with rage.

  A rush of fear washed over her, as the furious man moved forward and took her by the arms, his massive hands enveloping them whole, so his fingers touched on the other side. Without thinking, she let out a soft little cry and brought her knee upward in a sharp forward angle. The hard bony kneecap struck true enough to draw a slobbering yowl that filled the elevator and hurt her ears.

  As if all the oxygen had vanished, the operator collapsed onto the ground and clutched at his genitals, his face contorted, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. The elevator doors flared out again, this time stopping around the man's legs and withdrawing once more. In a panic, Claire stomped her heel into his shins, until he finally pulled them toward his chest and made room for the doors.

  Immediately, she pressed the button to summon the doors back again, but they remained withdrawn, while the operator crawled to his knees.

  "You fucking bitch," he gasped. "I’ll kill you!"

  Finally, the doors appeared again, and when the operator saw this, he staggered to his feet and limped forward, one hand stretched out, fingers clutching the air.

  Claire held her hands to her mouth as the man encroached, his image growing slender between the closing elevator doors. Convinced he would interrupt them once more, she positioned herself to offer whatever defense she could muster, but just before his hand could slip between, the elevator sealed itself shut and began its descent.

  As she drew closer to the lobby floor, she looked at her dress, which now resembled a costume from a horror film. When the elevator opened, a well-dressed old couple stood before her, their jaws agape at such an unexpected vision. She stepped between them and into the lobby, where gasps spread from person to person like a virus.

  Through the hush, Romero rushed forward and took her by the arm.

  "You're not going anywhere," he said, as he held his off hand to an earpiece that barked instructions in low tones.

  "Help me!" Claire yelled to the people in the lobby, but all seemed too shocked to move. "Please, help me, for God's sake!"

  Finally, a large man in a cowboy hat stepped forward and blocked Romero’s path.

  "Hold it right there," he said. "Where are you taking this woman?"

  Romero looked the man over.

  "This is none of your concern. I advise you to stand aside."

  A fire took life in the large man's eyes, and he cocked his hat back and pointed a thick finger at Romero.

  "You’re not taking her anywhere until we figure out what in the hell's going on."

  A crowd started to form around the three, and this seemed to make Romero nervous. He looked from side-to-side and then released Claire's arm. The large man held out a hand, but before she could take it, Romero drove his empty palm into the front of the man’s neck, knocking his hat backward and choking the breath from his throat.

  The crowd gave a collective gasp, as the large man fell to his knees. Without hesitation, Claire turned and made a run for the exit, but just before she could grab the door handle, Romero had her arm again.”

  "You're not going anywhere," he whispered into her ear. "You'll pay for what you've done."

  With that, he turned to face the lobby, but before he could focus his eyes, a large fist collided with his nose, and a crunching noise racketed across the room. Instantly, Romero lost consciousness and fell forward, his face landing hard against the floor.

  Tooth fragments shot out and skipped across the tile, settling just in front of the old couple from the elevator, their faces advertising horror and disgust. The large man hovered over his fallen adversary, his left hand still clutching his throat, whistling, wheezing breaths passing between his purple lips.

  "Are you alright?" A woman asked.

  "I'm fine," he whispered. "Someone call the authorities."

  As people gathered around him, he looked for the girl.

  "Where's that woman?" He said to no one in particular.

  Everyone looked around, but no one had an answer, and no one knew what to say, when the authorities finally arrived.

  Chapter 15

  Outside in the daytime streets, the people moved about in great hoards, their sweating limbs clutching meager commodities, small children begging for money and snatching things from people's hands. Entitled by norm, they all moved against one another with a practiced sort of panic, shoulders banging hard against other shoulders without drawing even a grunt or a glance in return. Through this swimming mass, riders would pass, their motor scooters moving a few feet and then beeping, a few feet more and then the same.

  Amongst all the congestion, Claire moved about, her presence seemingly unnoticed despite the blood on her dress and the white of her skin. As she slithered between bodies, the street people shouted to one another with offers of fruits, newly-plucked poultry and jewelry that left green marks on the skin. The chaos gave welcome cover, and she used it for all its worth before finally ducking into a small tavern that could serve no more than eight at a time.

  Inside, a little man stood behind the bar polishing glass mugs, his face too old to wager an age. He glanced up at the bloody mess in the doorway light before him, his expression unchanged by such a kink in his day. Unfazed and unmoved, he pointed a thumb to the back and then returned to
his duties. She hurried past him into a bathroom and shut the door.

  Within the tiny room, she found a hole in the floor and a bucket of water, no mirror or paper or window from which to flee. She removed her dress and mushed it up into a wad, the smell of Dominic's blood mingling with the foul stink from the hole. She plunged the wad of cloth into the bucket of water and wrung it full. She withdrew the dripping mass and scrubbed it against her flesh, grinding the dried flecks of burgundy loose until her skin looked reasonably clean.

  She heard a gentle knock at the door and stiffened. She took the knob and pulled the door open a crack. The old man stood before her, the same disinterested look on his face, some dirty clothes in his hands. He shoved them through the crack and then walked away. She dressed quickly and splashed water on her face. She checked the mirror but saw only wall. She toed the creaking wood floor and pushed her head out into the room, no one there except the old man. He rubbed his dirty rag against the glass mugs, a strange and quiet tune on the back of his throat.

  "Hello," she said.

  He stopped his work and turned.

  "American?" He asked.

  She nodded.

  He sighed and fled his post. He approached the front door and shut it. He locked it.

  "One night," he said. "In the morning you go."

  He showed her a room in the upstairs, a tiny, old-looking thing. Dusty.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "One night," he said, holding a crooked finger up to make plain his point.

  "Yes," she said. "I understand."

  He turned and walked down the stairs, his footsteps slow, the boards crying softly with each careful step.

  She looked about the room. There was a little soiled army cot, a window, a bed pan and not much else. She shut the door and opened the window, the rumbling chaos outside so noisy and yet seemingly distant. She collapsed onto the cot, falling into sleep's embrace deep and suddenly, the breeze filtering through a pair of torn little white curtains that bloomed up silently as the room breathed the air.