The Director

by Lily White

  Grabbed by the shoulders, I was dragged back, the sound of metal hinges scraping before I was gagged and stuffed in a cage. The door slammed shut just as the woman turned to look at me. Fear crept in to diminish the relief she'd once had.

  His chin jutted in her direction next. "Secure her as well. Let's get started."

  Stepping down the three small steps I hadn't noticed on the side of the stage, the man rounded the front watching as the other woman was dragged up steps on the opposite side.

  She cried as they led her to the bed, begged to be let go as they pushed her to the mattress and locked her arms into the shackles. So focused on what they were doing to her, I hadn't noticed the man approaching my cage. He knelt down when my eyes peered up at him, one of his hands folding over the top bar as he studied me.

  With a soft voice, he warned, "Pay close attention to what happens here. You still have a choice to make. But if you utter even one small sound while I'm filming, I'll make that choice for you. Do you understand?"

  Nodding my head without hesitation, I stared in stupefied shock. "Yes," I finally answered, the word muffled by the gag.

  "Good."

  Back on his feet, he approached the stage, standing in place behind the cameras as more people rushed in to take their places among the machines. One man carried a clapboard, another sound equipment, and another more lighting devices that were placed in specific places around the room.

  I was watching a film production - the realization trapped me in its grasp. The surreal quality about the scene warped my reality viciously, twisting it and skewing it until I wondered if death wouldn't have been the better choice.

  "Bring in the men," the man called out, and for the first time, I understood who he was. Astute, wealthy I assumed, well spoken, firm and overly attentive, there was no other role he would fill better.

  It took the stage and cameras for me to see it, the frenetic activity as sound was checked and lights were changed. It took watching him stand among it all, his focus on the stage, his body held in patient wait.

  He was the Director, the man behind the screen, the puppet master who pulled the strings of every person around him. We were not separate individuals and lives, we were part of a whole - his whole - without need for our permission. Characters aligned on a storyboard, we were intended for his purpose - a purpose I didn't yet know.

  Pulling a pair of wire framed glasses from a pocket inside the jacket of his suit, he read over a stack of pages given to him by one of the production crew. "Yes, that will do," he opined. "Let's begin."

  The room went silent after every person took their place. The director took off his eyeglasses, tucked them in his inside jacket pocket and inclined his head toward a woman now holding the clapboard. She raised the top, her voice deeper than I'd expected. "Forced Silence, take -"

  "Wait," the director called out. The woman paused with the top of the clapboard still raised, her mouth hanging open on the last word she'd intended to say.

  Stepping toward the stage, he trained his gaze on the woman cowering on the bed. She was crying by this point, huge body quaking sobs that shook the mattress beneath her.

  "For this particular film, I'll allow you to ad lib your part. Fight as much as you want. Scream. Cry. Beg. This is your introduction into your new life - your debut to the world at large. Make me believe it. Understand, however, that this is only the first phase. Play your role well, and the span of your time here will go a lot smoother."

  The woman on the bed nodded her head, tears dripping from her jawline to soak the mattress below.

  He stepped back and flashed a look at the woman holding the clapboard.

  "Forced Silence, scene one. Take one."

  The top of the clapboard slapped down, the sharp noise ricocheting like a bullet through the room. Three men entered from the right side of the stage, each naked but for the hoods they wore to cover their faces. Black leather with eyeholes covered in mesh, nose holes and a zipper at the back, the masks took away the humanity - the soul - of the men who approached her, leaving just the hard bodies - the machines - that would do their worst.

  A keening sound crawled up the woman's throat. Soft at first, it grew louder as the men drew closer.

  She screamed when the first man struck out, the shackles holding her wrists clanging like bells against the iron headboard. He tugged her forward by her ankles, the violence of the shackles yanking her arms above her head was obvious enough that I felt it within my own tendons and bones. The woman fought. She kicked out, writhed, her legs like two pistons running a fast paced engine, but the man overpowered her, pulling her so hard that her body was lifted off the bed, held taut between the shackles and his hands.

  This wasn't fantasy pornography, wasn't a practiced scene between two consenting actors. This was raw footage of one of the most demeaning acts a human being could suffer. Her screams filled the room, bouncing off the walls and colliding together as one echo met the next. I watched in pure horror, my jaw hanging open uselessly, my eyes unblinking as I stared forward. The guard standing beside my cage laughed softly when the man holding the woman's ankles parted them enough for the other two men to get a strong grip over her thighs, helping the first man open her legs to his eyes.

  The first man released her ankles, crawling up onto the bed between her legs, his erection a hard threat between them. He waited as another man rounded the bed to hold her shoulders to the mattress, the last man moving to the other side to pull something from a nearby table. I couldn't see it clearly, couldn't make out what it was, but after watching him place it over her mouth and hook it to wires, the breath caught on my lungs.

  A deep, calm voice filtered through the room, but I couldn't determine its source. "Shhhhh, stay quiet, or else."

  She screamed just before a light burst from the device tucked over her mouth, her body arching up as if driven by an electrical current. It only lasted a second, but it felt like an eternity. The beat of my heart stopped briefly when I understood what they were doing. When my pulse returned, it was frantic.

  Forced Silence. The title repeated in my head until the scope of the act was clear. For every noise this woman made, she'd be punished by an electrical current being driven through her body.

  It only took shocking her once to stop the struggle, and the man between her legs edged up to seat himself against her body. Pulling my focus from the horror playing out in front of me, I directed my attention to the puppet master pulling the strings.

  Silently, he motioned for the cameramen to move in and find the best angles, for the boom operator to lower the mic in order to catch every sound the woman made. There was no rush, no urgency, no concern or hesitancy, just a man recording his story, a monster documenting every second of the woman's rape.

  From the slap of skin against skin, from the thrust of hips and the small sounds crawling up the woman's throat, I knew the man was using her just as I'd been used in the van.

  The deep voice returned. Clear. Concise. Cut through with heavy breathing. "You like that don't you, slut?" His hands gripped her hips, lifting her higher. "Fuck, you feel so good. I'll fuck you until you cry." His hips thrust harder. "More tears, beautiful. Keep them coming."

  Although it wasn't me on that stage, wasn't my body held in place by three men, wasn't my voice stolen by threat of pain, I still died a little inside.

  When the voice cut through the room again, I realized there were mics within the masks worn by the men, it was the only possible reason their voices could be so clear. "Fuck yes," he growled as his hips thrust forward one more time, the cheeks of his muscular ass clenching together as he finished off inside her.

  He dropped her hips, pulled free and climbed off the bed. One man removed the device from her mouth, only for her to scream again. It wasn't terror lacing her voice, just the deep, mournful bellow of a woman giving up her will to live.

  "Turn her over. It's my turn."

  Dark laughter filled the room, the cameras shifted, the boo
m operator running quickly to the left of the stage to capture the woman's cries as she realized what would occur next.

  "Cut," the director called out. All movement stopped. "Camera 2, I want a close up taken from the side of the woman's body. Use the handheld on this scene. Climb up there, if necessary. I want another camera on her face. Every expression must be caught. We have one shot at this."

  His voice was professional and matter of fact, not an ounce of sympathy found within the deep tenor. The production team took their places, the woman whimpering where she was held down on the bed.

  The director's voice rang out again. "Be sure to get a close up of the modified gag. I need the viewers to understand its function. Everybody in place," he commanded. The room went silent before he nodded his head toward the woman with the clapboard.

  Lifting the top, she held it and said, "Forced Silence, scene two, take one." The slap of the clapboard cut through the silence.

  It was no surprise as the poor woman was tugged down, jerked sideways and positioned over the side of the bed. And at that point, my shock was numbing me to the degradation, the violence, the horrid reality that she was being used as a pawn in some monster's game.

  I was helpless to assist, caged and gagged, cast aside to sit and witness the consequence of the choice she'd been forced to make. Unable to process the scene, I watched as the men positioned themselves to rape her again, my eyes tracking the gag they shook in her face.

  "One noise out of you and this gag will cut through your gums. I yank. It cuts. Do you understand?"

  She nodded her head, her eyes practically swollen shut as they fit the device over her mouth. From where I sat, it resembled the same gag tied around my head, except for the gleam of metal stitched into the cloth. I couldn't clearly make out the design, but I didn't need to. It was demonstrated a few moments later as to its purpose.

  With the gag placed just under her lips, the man behind her held the ends at the back of her head, his free hand working to position himself at the entrance of her body. He thrust his hips and the sound that emanated from her mouth was inhuman. Covering my ears to the shrill cry that sliced the air with the horrendous truth of where he'd invaded her, my eyes were still wide and unblinking to see blood trickling down her legs.

  My gaze tracked to her face, to the crimson stain trickling down her cheeks that matched.

  The man raping her laughed. "I told you to be quiet," he scolded her, his hips now moving at a rhythmic pace.

  I couldn't watch anymore, couldn't fathom how any person could stand idly by and witness this.

  Eventually the screams died down, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air as her voice turned to whimpers. She was forced silent again, and just for watching, so was I.

  The man finished and pulled out of her body, the director's astute voice yelling, "Cut! That's a wrap. Get her to clean up and medical. Everybody else, set the next stage."

  The next stage.

  My stage.

  My stomach lurched, bile creeping up to coat my tongue while I fought not to vomit. Trapped in a cage, it was useless trying to escape. And that fact was never more obvious than when the director turned to look at me.

  While people moved around him, the ebb and flow of activity somehow bending around his personal sphere, he approached me with no hurry to his steps. I counted each fall of his foot as he approached, held my breath when only a few feet existed between us, made a bleak decision when he was close enough to kneel down and look me in the eye.

  "So, what will it be?" He asked, the silky croon like sandpaper against my senses now that I understood the type of monster he was. "Fuck or die?"

  My eyes locked on his face, on the dark contours of his angled cheeks, on the stubble running along his square jaw, on the dusting of silver at his temples. He was mesmerizing in both beauty and intensity, the picture unsettling for the monster I knew existed beneath the cultured and powerful facade.

  Dragging in a breath despite my lungs' refusal, ignoring the pain in my fingers from being locked around the cold, metal bars of my cage, fighting against the instinct implicit to every living creature to survive, I made a decision that was in opposition to what I wanted.

  It wasn't a cognitive decision at first, simply a subconscious understanding that, when floated to the surface of my thoughts, made me rally against myself. Disbelief suffocated me, the need to survive screaming and begging while I knew it was the only decision I had left.

  I wouldn't willingly suffer the horror I just witnessed.

  I wouldn't subject myself to torture in order to buy more time.

  I wasn't strong enough to endure when an easier escape was within my reach.

  Perhaps I was a coward for the choice I knew I'd make, but I made it regardless because I refused to bend to the creative will of a psychopath.

  Locking my eyes to his clear, grey gaze, I swallowed down the battle I chose not to fight.

  "I choose death," I answered, preferring the quickness of a bullet to the pain of captivity, abuse, and a long drawn out demise.

  The corners of his lips tilted up, amusement a flicker behind his piercing eyes. "Are you sure?"

  I didn't have to acknowledge his question for him to know I wouldn't change my mind. Silence beat between us, growing so thick that its weight buried us both. Breaking it finally, he cornered me with a response I'd never even guessed he would give.

  "Fine, then," he said, his words spoken slowly - cryptically. "Allow me to show you what that looks like."

  EMMA

  "Open the cage. I'll be escorting this one to Stage B."

  He stood as he instructed the guard to free me, his hands sliding into his pockets while he waited for me to crawl out of the cage and climb to my feet. Having his hands tucked away had given me a false sense of security as I approached him, the guard stalking behind me, his gun held to his chest.

  I should have known the imminent threat wasn't the man behind me, but the one who waited patiently for me to come within reach.

  Between one second and the next he was standing casually in wait and wrapping his hand over the back of my neck, his fingers digging into the tense, fear-laden muscle. I cried out in both shock and pain, my body hunching forward as if that alone would free me of the aggressive hold. Jerking me up, he dragged me closer to his body, not caring that my hair was still wet from the shower and would leave marks over his expensive suit.

  His mouth was close to my ear, hot breath brushing down my neck as he spoke. "You're not going to enjoy this. Being the professional that I am, I thought I'd give you the warning. Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?"

  Closing my eyes now that being perceived as rebellious no longer concerned me, I swallowed down the desire to beg for my life. It was a choice that was difficult to make, an impossibility to process as I pondered whether life was worth it if one had to live it enslaved. Being raped, being tortured, being forced to endure the agony I'd watched that poor woman survive, I wasn't brave enough to live through it. I preferred the easy way out.

  "I'd rather eat a bullet than be a character on your stage."

  His head fell back, his lips parting on boisterous laughter. Deep and vibrant, the sound shouldn't have been something that compelled those who heard it to smile. It was carefree, warm, and it had no place in this vile building filled with torture, horror and death. How a sound like that came from a monster was beyond me, but still his shoulders shook with mirth, with amusement and an unsettling display of humor I would have sworn was impossible in a man such as him.

  "A bullet?" He finally responded, still chuckling as his hand gripped my neck harder. "I'm sorry, but that option has passed, my sweet girl. Because here, in my wonderland of fantasy and film, there are so many better uses for you. Come, I'll show you one now."

  The guard and his gun followed closely behind, his booted steps beating behind us and echoing off the walls. We'd entered a small hallway that dipped left than right, only to come upon an
other damn door. Where this one led, I wasn't certain, but what I did know was that the scene kept getting worse for each room I entered.

  The director reached with his free hand to open the door and shove me through, the guard closing the metal partition at our backs. Even the slamming door hadn't been enough to jar my senses and strip my focus from the scene laid out before me.

  A chain link fence ran the length of the room, what lay behind it obscured by a black tarp. No walls were visible from where I stood, just a ceiling that was at least twenty feet above my head. The floor was bare concrete, much like the room where we'd first been brought in upon arriving. Scarred and gouged, it was a sea of grey stained with brown splotches. It wasn't difficult to determine what had caused those stains.

  I swallowed down the anxiety I felt to focus on the face of the woman currently locked to the chain link fence with handcuffs around her wrists and shackles at her ankles. Recognition hit me within a split second - it was the woman who'd been led to the left, the one with asthma who, according to the asshole currently holding me in place, wouldn't do for the long run.

  A chill coursed across my bones to become a tremor through my arms and legs. Barely able to remain on my feet, I darted my gaze to the cameras set in place, the small director chairs with their wood frames and canvass seats, and to the props set aside from the main scene, discreetly tucked away outside of view. Metal gleamed beneath low lighting, the razor edges of instruments intended for cruelty and torture. My lips parted and a question flowed out before I recognized I was speaking.

  "Why? Why are you doing this to her? To us?"

  The skin wrinkled between his eyes as he glanced down at me, his piercing gaze capturing mine for only a split second before he refocused his attention on the woman bound and helpless against the chain link fencing. The silence in the room became deafening as I waited for an answer that never came, my attention drawn to the labored breathing I hadn't noticed before. Forcing my eyes away from the man holding me and back to the nameless victim waiting for whatever sentence he'd determined would be her fate, I understood that she was in the midst of an asthma attack - one for which no help would be coming.