The Broken Trilogy

by Amy Cross

  "If you don't want to be treated like a child," my father's voice whispers, "then stop acting like one."

  "Thanks for the advice," I whisper.

  "Allow me," Mark says suddenly, having come out of the house behind me. He walks to the car and activates a button on his key-fob, which causes the car's doors to slide smoothly to one side. I can't help panicking. Did he hear my whispered response to my father's imaginary voice? Great, now he probably thinks I'm a nutter.

  Edward Lockhart

  1895

  "Edward!" she calls out as soon as I walk through the door and enter my hotel room. "Edward!"

  She's in the bedroom, and she sounds absolutely desperate. Poor Sophia; she has probably been waiting all day for me to return, spending her every waking moment trying to think up new ways to satisfy me. She seems to sense that the game has reached a critical point, and although there's a hint of desperation creeping into her soul of late, she has so far risen to every challenge. Still, I mustn't get carried away; she has great potential, but there is a long way to go before she I can be sure that she will really deliver.

  "Edward!" she calls again.

  Without replying, I begin the laborious process of removing my coat and shoes. I should, of course, have my manservant here to do such things, but tonight I cannot afford to have anyone else nearby. There must be no witnesses.

  "Edward, come to me!" she says. "I'm ready for you. I have something that I'm quite certain will interest you. A gift. Please, won't you say something?"

  Smiling, I walk across the main room and reach the bedroom door. It's dark in there, with the only light coming from a single candle that burns on the dresser. For a moment, I can see very little, but finally my eyes adjust and I realize that Sophia is naked on the bed. I enter the room, walking around to get a better view of her body. In the warm orange glow of the candle, she looks particularly beautiful.

  "I have decided to give myself to you completely," she says, opening her legs a little to expose the pink slit of her vagina. "Whatever you want," she continues, "and whatever you need, I am yours tonight. I will not fight you, nor will I demure from any request you make of me." She reaches down and dips a single finger into her wetness. "My body is yours. Do what you want with me. Let me feel you inside." She parts the lips of her vagina, as if to better show me the glistening, light pink passage within.

  I pause, uncertain as to whether I should say anything.

  "The game doesn't need to demand anything," she says after a moment, with as much confidence as she can muster. "I give myself willingly to the game, body and soul." She pauses, as if she's expecting me to reply. "I thought long and hard," she continues eventually, with a little uncertainty in her voice, "and I realized what the game wants. It wants total and unconditional submission. It wants someone who will give their entire body to its cause, and this is something I am willing to do." She smiles. "But first, as I mentioned," she continues, "I have something for you. It's just a small gift, nothing of monetary value, but... Would you like it now, my darling?"

  I stare at her.

  "It's in here," she says, shifting a little to better present her crotch to me. "It's inside me. You need merely slip a finger inside to find it." She takes my hand in hers and guides my fingers between her legs. "I put it there for you. Only for you. I want you to find it. Don't wait."

  With that, she leans back and raises her hips toward me.

  I pause for a moment before finally slipping a finger between the lips of her vagina. She is so warm and wet, I feel an urge to lean down and taste her, but I know that such a move would be a terrible mistake. Instead, I gently move my finger deeper inside, while she reclines on the bed and watches me intently. Slipping my finger deeper still, I finally feel my fingertip brush against something that should not be there. Very delicately, I start to pull the object out, and finally I watch as a single rose petal slips out between her labia.

  "It is beautiful, is it not?" she asks, smiling at me.

  I pause for a moment, feeling the wet petal between my fingers. It is a dead thing, of course; as soon as it was separated from the rose, the petal died, and no amount of moisture can disguise this fact. Dead things have no place in the game.

  "Are you pleased?" she asks.

  I stare at her.

  "Edward?"

  A wave of sadness begins to wash over me. I can honestly not think of a time in my life when I have been more wrong about a woman. I raised Sophia up so high, telling myself that she had a chance to progress through the game, and now I am forced to accept that she can go no further. It will be distressing to see her join the ranks of the game's losers, and it will be a personal blow to my reputation when the others find out. I feel great anger toward her, and finally I have no choice but to turn and walk to the door.

  "Edward?" she calls out, climbing off the bed and hurrying after me.

  Without replying, I head out to the main room and make my way toward the front door.

  "Was it the rose petal?" she asks, hurrying after me. "It was just a foolish gesture, Edward. I thought you'd enjoy it." She grabs my hand and tries to pull me back toward the bedroom, and it's clear that she senses the abrupt change in my mood. "Edward, come and make love to me. I want to feel you inside me, wherever you want to put yourself. Please, let me please you!"

  Ignoring her, I stop at the door and pause for a moment before turning the handle. As soon as the door swings open, I make eye contact with Mr. White, who has been waiting outside the whole time.

  "What's he doing here?" Sophia asks, with palpable fear in her voice.

  Mr. White stares at me.

  "Make it quick," I say, standing aside.

  He steps past me, and I swear to Almighty God that there's a faint smile on the man's lips.

  "Edward?" Sophia says. "Edward, what -"

  I shouldn't look, but I do. Turning, I see the tip of Mr. White's hunting knife slice through Sophia's neck, creating a sound not unlike the ripping of fabric, and then the blade twists around before he pulls it back out. Sophia steps back, clutching her throat as blood sprays onto the wall. Pressing her hands against the wound, she seems to be trying to force the blood to stay in her body, but the task is hopeless. She staggers toward me, her eyes wide open in shock. It's almost as if she thinks there's something I can do to help her, but of course it's far too late. No matter how she tries to contain the flow of blood, she can do nothing to save herself as the bright red fluid erupts not only from the gash in her neck, but also from her mouth. With blood flowing down over her breasts and dripping onto the floor, she tries to steady herself against a chair, but her legs give way and she collapses.

  I step back, in order to make sure she can't get any blood on my shoes. Still refusing to accept the end, she tries to crawl toward the window, leaving a thick red trail across the carpet. Finally, she stops crawling and rolls onto her side, before reaching out as if to grab something that might save her; she opens her mouth, and for a moment it seems that she's trying to say something; she makes a faint gurgling sound, but finally she falls silent and I realize that the life has left her body. She's dead, her cold, glassy eyes staring up at me in horror. The very last thing she saw, before death, was my face.

  "Well," says Mr. White, still standing by the doorway with the bloodied knife in his hand, "another one bites the dust. I suppose we must get to work, Mr. Blue."

  I stare at Sophia's dead eyes. It is a perpetual horror to me that all the girls who enter the game must eventually meet such a terrible fate.

  Elly

  Today

  Standing in the middle of a huge, high-ceilinged warehouse, I reach out and touch a large gray membrane that's hanging from a gantry. The whole thing feels so weird, like a giant gray rose petal coated with a thin layer of moisture.

  "It might not seem like much," Mark says, standing a little way behind me, "but this is the most advanced skin in the world. It's extremely thin, thinner than the skin on a human body, but it's also very
strong. You could fire a bullet at this stuff from a couple of inches away, and it wouldn't make a mark." He steps forward and touches the membrane, causing it to bend slightly. "It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

  "Cool," I mutter, walking around the membrane to the other side. To my surprise, I see that it's very slightly transparent, and I can just about see Mark's face on the other side. So this is the stuff my father was working on: a huge, gray sheet of high-tech skin that they're gonna put on airplanes. Ten years of a man's life, reduced to this. How many hundreds and thousands of hours did my father sit at his desk, working out how to make this stuff? I don't know whether to be impressed or depressed.

  "Careful," my father's voice says, gently chiding me. "Sometimes it takes a lot of work to make things look simple."

  "Are you kidding?" I want to reply.

  "He was checking you out earlier," his voice continues. "I know you noticed."

  "Let me show you to his office," Mark says, gesturing for me to follow him to the other end of the warehouse. We climb some steps and end up in a small room with a panoramic view over the rest of the warehouse. Everything in here is slightly messy, just like my father's study at home, and I can instantly smell his aftershave. It's weird being here, and I almost feel like he might walk in at any moment. I have to keep reminding myself over and over again that he's gone forever.

  "So you paid for this whole place, right?" I ask, turning to Mark.

  "Your father was the brains behind the project," he replies. "I just recognized the potential and supplied the necessary funding. And believed in him from the start, obviously. He was turned down by scores of investors before he came to me."

  "How much?" I ask.

  "How much do you think?"

  "Millions?"

  He smiles.

  "More?"

  "Approximately half a billion so far," he replies. "It sounds like a lot, but I expect to get my money back ten times over."

  "No kidding," I reply, walking over to the desk by the window. This must be where my father worked, day after day. He was always fairly secretive about his work; well, not 'secretive' exactly, but he didn't like talking about it much when he was at home. He preferred talking about the latest football news, or music, or movies. Most of all, though, he liked to ask me about my life. I'd tell him about the latest books I was studying, and he always seemed genuinely interested. Now, looking at his desk, I realize those conversations are a thing of the past. He's gone.

  "You're socially awkward," my father's voice says suddenly. "You know that, right? It's almost a disability."

  "He kept some personal items here," Mark says, walking over to join me. "I suggested to your mother that perhaps you could take a quick look and decide what you want to keep." He pauses. "I was a little surprised when she said you'd come today. I thought it could wait."

  "My mother wants to keep me busy," I tell him. "She doesn't like it when people sit around doing nothing. She thinks idle hands are dangerous." I glance at Mark and see that he's smiling, but by the time I've realized I should smile back, he's already turned to head back over to the door.

  "Just take anything you want," Mark says. "I've already moved all the paperwork out of the way, so everything that's left is up for grabs. I'll step out and give you some privacy."

  "It's fine," I say, taking a deep breath as I try to work out where to start. Mark, who seems like he'd rather not be here, disappears out the door, and I hear him walking through to the main part of the warehouse, leaving me standing here looking at my father's things. I guess he's not interested in helping me go through all this stuff. To him, I'm just a slight annoyance, someone to be briefly entertained in the aftermath of my father's death.

  Sighing, I start going through the drawers, which turn out to be mostly empty until I get to the last one, which I find is locked. Jiggling it about a little, I realize that something is rolling around inside, so I crouch down and try to get a better look. It seems slightly odd that my carefree, happy-go-lucky father would suddenly decide to lock one particular drawer, so I find myself searching through the rest of the desk again in case I've missed a key. Coming up blank, I try the drawer again and start wondering whether there's some way I can force it open. I know it probably doesn't matter, but there's a part of me that figures my father wouldn't care, not now that he's dead. I just want to get this goddamn drawer open already, so I can get whatever's in there and then leave.

  "Leave it," my father's voice says.

  I tug on the drawer again.

  "Can't I have a few secrets, even after I'm dead?"

  I pull a credit card from my wallet and try to trick the lock, but it doesn't work.

  "Leave it out, Sherlock," he says. "Let a man have some privacy. Whatever's in that drawer, I obviously didn't want anyone getting at it."

  "I just want to -"

  "You don't have any right breaking that drawer open," he says firmly. "No right at all."

  "Yeah, but -"

  I pause as I hear footsteps over by the door. Seconds later, Mark appears, looking slightly puzzled.

  "Hi," I say.

  "Did you call me?" he asks.

  I shake my head.

  "Oh." He shrugs. "I thought I heard something." As he smiles awkwardly, his phone starts ringing. Answering, he quickly walks away, leaving me alone in the office once again.

  "He thinks you're a lunatic," my father's voice says. "He heard you talking out loud to me. By the way, I've worked out why you haven't cried for me yet."

  "And why's that?" I whisper.

  "Sorry, kiddo. That's something you need to figure out for yourself. There's a reason, though."

  Ignoring the voice, I start grabbing a few random things from the desk. There's nothing here that's worth keeping, but I figure my mother will go nuts if I go home empty-handed, so I load some stationary into a small box, along with a few old diaries and assorted pieces of crap. Once I'm done, I head out of the office and back through to the main part of the warehouse, where I realize that Mark is still on the phone. Not sure what to do, I pause as I see his faint outline on the other side of the large membrane.

  "That's not what we agreed," he's saying to someone, keeping his voice low, as if doesn't want to be overheard. Deciding I shouldn't really listen to his business dealings, I turn to walk away. "She clearly isn't suitable," he adds. "I could have told you that weeks ago. The first time I slept with her, I knew it was a waste of time. I know Lady Red's keen to give chances to girls who seem unsuitable, but surely there's a limit?"

  I stop walking, intrigued by what I'm hearing.

  "She has to learn to trust our judgment," he continues. "It's time to move on from Laura. Paris was a complete bust. As long as we've covered all our bases, we'll be fine. Let the game take care of her." There's a pause. "Anyway, I have to go," he says eventually, sounding a little annoyed with the person on the other end of the line. "We'll start again. There's no point sticking with something that's not working. I've already got someone in mind. I'll meet you tonight, down by the river." There's another pause, and I realize the conversation is over. Panicking for a moment, I step out from behind the membrane and find myself face to face with him.

  "Hi," I say, acting as if I've just arrived. "Sorry, I couldn't find you. I thought maybe you'd left without me or something."

  He smiles, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes, as if he's worried that maybe I overheard what he was talking about.

  "Ready?" he asks.

  I nod, and we turn to walk away. Suddenly, however, he stops and turns to look at the membrane. There's a pause before he steps over to it and reaches out to touch one of the edges, where there's a slight piece of frayed fabric.

  "Something wrong?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "Must be a manufacturing error," he says, running his finger over the damage. "It can't have been damaged after it was produced." He seems trouble for a moment, but finally he turns to me. "Let's go," he says. "I'm sure you need t
o get home, and I have a few more appointments this evening." As he leads me to the exit, though, I notice him glancing back at the membrane, as if he can't quite understand how his perfect skin could have been damaged.

  Edward Lockhart

  1895

  "You made a mistake today," Mr. White says, sitting in the chair by the fire as he cleans Sophia's blood from his knife. "Should I be worried?"

  Normally, we would have removed the girl's body from the room by now, but this evening Mr. White seems unusually pensive and tired. It has been half an hour since Sophia breathed her last, and her naked body remains on the floor, her hand still outstretched as if she's reaching for something she believed might save her. I can't help wondering what she thought she could see.

  "There was something different about her," I reply, unable to take me eyes off the corpse. "She had more vigor than the others. I truly believed -"

  "You were wrong," he says, interrupting me. "You allowed yourself to be distracted by a pretty girl, and your judgment was clouded. I could tell the other day that you were becoming infatuated with her. Let this be a lesson to you. The game does not make provision for love."

  "I know," I say, trying not to bristle as he lectures me. "I did not love her. I merely liked her, and I believed she had potential."

  "Well she didn't," he replies. "Are you sure you weren't just blinded by her magnificent chest?"

  "You seem rather out of sorts," I say, turning to him. "Is everything okay?"