The Director

by Lily White

  "Finish the rest. I expect you'll be fully undressed by the time I walk back to where I was standing previously."

  He moved away, and I hurried to pull the skirt down over my hips, dragging the tattered remains of my panties along with it. They puddled over my feet on the floor and I kicked them away just as I finished pulling off the shirt and my bra. So filled by terror, there wasn't room for shame or modesty while baring every part of myself to strangers.

  By the time he spun back to look at us, I was nude to his eyes. He didn't bother glancing in my direction, his demeanor so arrogant and sure that he had no doubt I'd fought to fulfill his expectations.

  Allowing only a few moments of silence, he spoke and capsized the room beneath the deep tenor of his sturdy voice. "The three of you who are remaining may or may not be given a choice today. After careful inspection, I'll request you all to step right or left to stand in front of the door on that side. It's my suggestion you do so without complaint, tears or any other such behavior." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before adding, "I believe I've adequately demonstrated what occurs to those who fail to follows directions as given."

  It made me wonder why I was still standing rather than lying on the floor bleeding out from the head. I hadn't undressed as quickly as the others, but, yet, he'd let the failure slide.

  Stepping up to the first woman to the farthest left, he reached forward, snatching her chin between his forefinger and thumb. As calculated as a man making a fine jewelry purchase, or a scientist inspecting whatever experiment he had running, he turned the woman's face from right to left.

  "Open your mouth," he demanded.

  She did so, and after he finished inspecting her teeth, he released her face to say, "Turn around." His eyes roamed from her shoulders to her feet, his expression unimpressed. "Bend over."

  She hesitated, but as soon as the shuffle of boots headed her way, the rattle of a gun being carried, she complied.

  The man peered down, scrutinizing the most intimate parts of her. "Stand and face me," he said, moving back one measured step.

  Eye pinned to her, he asked, "Do you have any diseases I should know about? Health issues or concerns?"

  "I," she choked over the word, the crack in her voice betraying vocal chords gripped by trepidation. "I have asthma," she managed to explain, regardless of how soft her voice had been to say it.

  One corner of his mouth tilted down, mild disappointment a note in his tone, "That won't do," he murmured. "Not for the long run anyway. Step to the left, stand in front of the door."

  Repeating the same inspection with the next woman, he directed her to the door on the right. Finally, it was my turn.

  My breath caught in my lungs as he stepped toward me, a chill coursing just beneath my skin until I was trembling so hard my teeth clacked together. Pain shot along my jaw and I closed my eyes out of instinct more than logical reason.

  "Open your eyes. You can't hide from me."

  Small muscle convulsions erupted over my bones, the terror now so thorough that if this man didn't kill me, the fear would. I could feel my heart stuttering to maintain a rhythm within its rapid pulse. My lungs burned for air but wouldn't inhale. My knees knocked together, the skin most likely bruised from having been slammed together.

  I opened my eyes to be pierced by scrutinous silver-grey.

  His voice was a touch softer, as if his words were only intended for him and me. "You should know that I will see everything there is to see about you. Your body. Your mind. Your soul. Not one thing is hidden from my view, not one facet able to be covered or disguised. I know people better than they know themselves and I've run across hundreds of girls like you." Pausing, he allowed his gaze to roll down my body and back up. "Close your eyes again and I'll consider that an act of rebellion. You won't enjoy crossing that line."

  My lips parted, my chest heaving with breath while I struggled to pull in oxygen. The room spun around me, tilted and swayed before coming back to a standstill.

  He watched me without a hint of regret for what he was doing, without even a trace of humanity or compassion. "Thank me for the warning," he said.

  Eyes wide, I stared at him in disbelief, seconds ticking silently by before I processed what he'd asked of me. "T-thank you," I stuttered, my teeth clamping back together just as soon as the words left my mouth.

  With the slightest tug of his lips, he answered, "You're welcome. Now, open your mouth."

  Doing as I was told, I ignored the sharp pain of extending my jaw. It wanted to stay in place, the muscles locked from having ground my teeth together. My eyes closed again, but I forced them open, not wanting to take the chance of appearing rebellious. He tapped my chin when he was done. Our eyes met again.

  "Turn around."

  I did.

  "Bend over."

  I did.

  "What do we have here? Carlos," he called out, anger a rolling thunder through his tone. The sound of approaching footsteps answered him. "Who brought in this girl?"

  The gritty voice from earlier spoke next. "Fadan and some kid named Scruff. Fadan said the kid is new."

  "Do you see this?"

  The focused gaze of two sets of eyes were burning into my skin, into the private parts of my body I'd fought my entire life to keep covered. Even on the two occasions I had sex, I did so in the dark. It felt awkward when I was naked - exposed. How I was able to stand this treatment now, I wasn't sure. Perhaps it was because the fear was so pervasive that there was no room for anything else.

  "She's been used," the astute man said, his voice like smooth silk in comparison to the other. "I'm very clear on what I want. This won't do."

  The semen left by the asshole in the van. When I allowed myself to think clearly, I realized that was what he'd found.

  A minute or so ago, I would have denied that the panic inside could be worse. But hearing what he said, how easily I could be dismissed for the way another man had already raped me, it drove another spike of panic through my body, my blood pressure becoming so high that I could feel it pressing at my veins and arteries begging to be released.

  "We can kill her now or direct her to the left door-"

  "No. Not yet. But ensure Fadan knows that Scruff is no longer welcome as member on the procurement teams. I want him dead before morning."

  "Yes, sir." Rough like the callused hands of a blue collar man, his voice was unaffected by the demand for blood. His footsteps trailed off until I could no longer hear them.

  "Stand up, straight," the silken voice instructed. His eyes met mine. "Do you have any diseases I should know about? Illnesses or health conditions?"

  I shook my head no.

  He nodded. "Move to stand behind the right door."

  Unsure where either door led, I felt oddly grateful for the right. The man walked through the center door without another word, his broad shoulders and dark grey suit disappearing from view as the wood swung closed.

  "Time to move. Everybody through their doors."

  He said it like we hadn't become the doors the moment we'd been directed to them. As if our identities weren't just relegated to the right or the left. The rattle of guns sounded behind me, the cold metal pressing against my naked back.

  "Get going," he warned.

  My attention snapped back to the threat, to the urgency and desolation of my situation, and I saw that the woman in front of me had already walked through. To my left, the single woman designated for the other door hesitated as well, her expression bleak, her hair matted at the back of her head, her shoulders withered with surrender as a gunman walked up behind her and shoved her through.

  As I stepped through my own door - my new identity - I wondered if I would see that woman again.

  I didn't have to wonder long.

  EMMA

  Stepping through the doorway, my view was met by another blank wall, a bend in the walkway leading right, far from the heart of the building. Turning, I followed in the footsteps of the woman in front of me
, keeping a steady pace so that the gunman behind me didn't tap me again with the reminder that death stood at my back.

  It wasn't easy keeping my balance, not with the tremor of terror flowing through me. Violently I quaked, both inside and out, the hostility of my own weaknesses and fears, helplessness and disbelief a weighted cloak that dragged me down further into despair.

  Although I struggled to breath evenly, the air coursing through my chest was sporadic at best. And even though I willed my heart to beat slower, it raced and left me dizzy. The tears were endless, my eyes burning, my cheeks chapped, but that discomfort was nothing compared to the bruising of my body, to the ache pulsing between my legs for what the man in the van had done.

  The gritty voiced man had labeled my rapist a kid, but I found the term lacking after what he'd done. A kid is innocent, that man was a monster. A kid plays and explores life, that man had set out to destroy mine.

  I hadn't reacted to the assault as much as I should have. I wondered if it was shock that forced me from my body, if it was fear of the unknown or worry about where I was being taken. Now that a few answers had been given, I thought back on what happened in that van, remembered the sensation of being bound and blind, unable to escape the humiliation. It filled me as I walked this barren hallway, a spark of anger finally coming to life.

  "The showers are on the left. Be sure you grab soap and shampoo from the counter when you walk in."

  Spoken without inflection, the instructions were delivered as if we were criminals being delivered to a prison, animals being driven into a pasture, victims being led to mass slaughter.

  The lack of emotion was more unsettling than the environment, the absence of anger or contempt pushing the moment into the surreal. My mind told me to fight against what was being done, but still my body turned left, my hands grabbed the packet of essentials and I stepped into the gossamer curtain of steam within the showers.

  It felt good to wash away the stain of lust left dripping down my legs, felt good to ease my locked muscles beneath the flow of heat if only for a few seconds. While standing under the strong spray, I could believe for that single moment that everything would be okay. But as quickly as I allowed even that inferior burst of optimism to ignite, it was stripped by the hand that gripped my shoulder and pulled me from the shower into the cold interior of the room.

  "That's long enough." A towel slapped against my body. "Dry off and follow me."

  Appreciative for the towel as some means of cover, I dried off quickly and wrapped the scratchy material over my body to follow the guard. He glanced over his shoulder as he stepped into the doorway leading into the hall, his motion stopping abruptly after he turned to glare at me. "Drop the towel, leave it in the room."

  I didn't want to let it go, couldn't seem to unlock my fingers from where they held it closed over my body. It wasn't the best towel. Rather, it was a dirty white, stained and tattered, washed so many times that it was like sandpaper against the skin. It had holes and frays, stray threads and ripped corners, but it was the only thing providing me comfort, the only bit of modesty in an unfamiliar place.

  Shaking my head minutely, I wasn't sure what came over me. That small spark of anger I'd felt after being led to the right began to pulsate and grow. It flashed and flickered, rolled and glowed, beat and surged until it was warm enough to bring to life a tiny speck of my bravery.

  The guard's lips curled at the corners, his dark eyes flashing with challenge and authority. Leaning over me, his large, fleshy hands clung tightly to his rifle, as if the amalgam of metal and explosive powder somehow made him superior. My eyes darted up to his, fear tracing my spine with frozen fingers, but still I found the strength to stare.

  "Drop the towel," he warned, his words enunciated with aggressive care.

  I clenched the towel as tightly as he clenched his gun, our eyes locked in a battle of wills I knew I would lose but fought anyway. Something had snapped inside me, the threads spun with fear, shock and trepidation pulled taut until, one by one, they snapped.

  A snide smile kicked up his lips, and before I could smile back in challenge of my own, he pushed out with the butt of his gun, slamming it against the side of my head and knocking me to the floor.

  Reaching up on instinct to check for the external damage that matched the horrendous pulse of pain now coursing across my skull, I released the towel only to have the guard snatch my wrist in his meaty paw and jerk me up from the floor.

  I was shoved out into the hall before I could make a sound in protest, my body just as naked as it was previously without need of one word of argument from the guard. Brute strength won, and I was returned to the pathetic victim as easily as I'd been stolen from the street.

  Turning a corner, I wasn't sure what to expect, but what I found was the same woman who'd been directed to the right like me, her body perfectly still and marked by bruises while she waited in front of another damn door. I was getting tired of doors - more than that, I was getting tired of not knowing where they led.

  I've never been a strong woman, have never been tough as nails, ready to tackle every problem thrown at me with style and finesse.

  I was more statistical than that, a daddy's girl who expected to marry a man that was tall and strong, smart and put together, someone who could carry me though life one handed while solving every problem tossed in our path. I wanted a hero to help me through the tough times, so I never bothered exploring whether I could be a hero myself.

  However, there were no strong men here to save me now. All I had was myself, and if I wanted to survive, if there was any hope for possible escape, I had to shed the damsel in distress mentality. I had to be smart. Had to be strong. Would have to endure every horror imaginable.

  The door swung open and we were walked through into a scene as surprising as it was sinister, as unexpected as it was out of place.

  A stage was set in front of us, the surface raised three feet from the floor. The lighting illuminated a bed positioned in the middle of that stage, the iron headboard with shackles dangling insidiously from the bars. Where we stood was dark and shadowed, as if we were an audience stepping in for the matinee. Cameras were positioned in all positions around the stage, director's chairs scattered throughout, but no production crew lumbered about, no other soul beyond the woman, the guard and me.

  Until he stepped on stage. The dark haired man in the tailored suit. The one who had callously ordered the execution of a frightened woman, as well as the execution of a kid who had raped me minutes after I'd been stolen. Not for the rape itself, mind you, but for having delivered damaged goods.

  On measured steps, he moved to the center of the stage, one click of the heel of his expensive shoe closely followed by the other. Unhurried, unconcerned, slow but steady, the sound of his shoes against the stage floor was a funeral dirge of sorts, a mournful beat for lives that were lost, even if our bodies were still breathing. The other woman and I had no clue what would happen next, had gone through so much already that we foolishly believed it couldn't get worse.

  I would learn quickly after meeting this well dressed man, that no matter how bad your circumstance, it could always deteriorate, that Hell itself could rise up and swallow you when you'd convinced yourself you'd experienced it all.

  "Fuck or die. Those are your two choices."

  His silken voice traveled leisurely across the room. Spoken as if he were offering a dinner selection of steak or chicken, he faced us, bored expression in place, hands tucked casually in his pockets. Behind us, the guard stood stock still, his fleshy hands most likely clinging to his gun as if it were a vital part of his body.

  The man's eyes darted to my left where the other woman stood, her posture painfully tight, her face drawn into an expression of exhaustion and dread. It may not have been obvious to any person standing at a distance, but once the man's eyes had locked on her, a tremor ran through her legs. I worried she'd collapse before answering him.

  "I don't understand," she mana
ged to whisper just loud enough for it to be heard.

  A mere tilt at the corner of his lips showed his amusement. "Fuck," he repeated, "or die." Pausing, he slid his gaze between us before resettling those piercing grey eyes on the trembling woman. "I'm giving you a choice between one option or the other. I suggest you make it before it's made for you."

  "I don't want to die," she confessed, tears cracking her voice apart, barely controlled sobs a quake over her small body. "I have a child. He's only a year old. I-"

  "When will he turn two?" The man asked, his question unsettling for its normalcy. What did it matter when her child would have another birthday? Would we be released after he'd completed whatever it was he had planned for us?

  An illusive ray of hope beamed through me at the mere possibility we would leave this place. Along with that hope came a rush of thoughts, facts I focused on as evidence that perhaps they would free us eventually, my mind finally settling on one.

  They'd blindfolded us while bringing us here. Perhaps that was so we wouldn't be able to lead the authorities back to this place once freed.

  "He'll be two in three months," she said, dragging my focus back to the conversation being held.

  "Then you'll need to make a choice," he reminded her.

  Her throat visibly swallowed down whatever toxic mixture of emotions choked her. Fingers tapping at her thighs as the only means she had to expel the terror, the chaos of a caustic storm of horror inside her, she blinked once before answering, "Fuck."

  His grin tilted higher. "Excellent choice. You'll be alive for your son's second birthday. How old are you?"

  "Twenty-two," she admitted, a new strength to her voice after hearing she would live following the decision she'd made.

  "Then you'll be alive for his third birthday as well. Congratulations."

  The woman cried out in relief, almost buckling over herself now that she had some semblance of hope.

  Jutting his chin in my direction, he called out to the guard. "Secure her. We have a film to make."