The Director

by Lily White

  The director's hand released me as quickly as he'd originally grabbed me, his palm slamming against my chest as he shoved me back toward the guard. "We don't have much time left, hold on to her," he ordered.

  The guard wrapped an arm around my neck, tightening my back against his chest. I could feel the cool metal of his gun pressing into my skin, the heat of his flesh the perfect counterpoint to the icy hard surface of his weapon. My senses magnified by fear, I could count every exhalation of his breath, could feel his languid pulse beneath his skin, could smell the faint scent of laundry detergent on his clothes. My eyes, however, could only focus on one man, the man who stepped toward the scene at the other end of the room, the same one who turned his head toward a person I'd not seen hiding within shadow, only the low hum of the director's voice audible when he gave his instructions.

  Within minutes the room filled with a production crew, much like the first, but smaller and more intimate.

  "We should begin," the director called out as he waited patiently for each member of the team to take their place, to ready their instruments for sound, lighting and film. The room around me darkened except for where two spotlights beamed down on the woman I wished I could help.

  The hum of a machine rattled to the front left of the scene, a pungent scent filtering into the room as white fog filled the ground below where the woman was tethered. Lifting just slightly, rolling when any of the crew moved around, the fog settled thickly at the woman's feet.

  Her face was absent of emotion, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breath. The fog only served to make it more difficult for her to draw in air. That alone was torture enough, but when a door opened to the right of her, when the hinges screamed as if rusted and old, her head snapped up, her eyes darting to the sound.

  So focused on the victim, I failed to see the woman holding a clapboard until she announced that filming would begin.

  "Breathe, take one." The top of the clapboard slapped down, the ricochet of sound ebbing off until only the low whir of the smoke machine could be heard.

  A man stepped in, his body covered head to toe in a form fitting black bodysuit, his face covered so that his identity was obscured. As soon as the woman saw him, she opened her mouth to scream, but her lack of breath left her voiceless, her lungs coughing and spurting in a violent attempt to draw in air. That alone made me dread the title given to this particular film.

  After she ceased her efforts to cry out in response to the approaching man, the stygian silence of the room wrapped around me, numbing me, holding me in place as focused on the scene as every other person. I feared my racing heart boomed through the space as loud as in my head.

  The way the man in black moved was oddly graceful despite his size. Fluid and boneless, his broad shoulders and long legs swept along as if choreographed to music I couldn't hear or interpret. Approaching the woman, he stood within inches of her right side, his neck bending as his face peered down at her, his height dwarfing her from how closely he stood.

  He was a shadow that stood in threat, his tall, broad form shockingly still despite the small tremor over his shoulders. Softly laughing at a woman much smaller than him, he took pleasure in her inability to scream, in the battle she fought to take a breath with him at her side.

  I didn't know much about asthma, didn't know how long the attacks could last and if there was a method to catch your breath again without medicine, but what I did know is that the woman's knees were buckling beneath her, that her face had been drained of color, even her lips taking on a blue tint.

  The man brought his hand toward her, opening his closed fist one long finger at a time while her frantic eyes traced the movement. An object he'd held was exposed to light, but I couldn't see what it was. The director motioned silently and a member of the production crew holding a smaller camera ran to get a better angle. With the cameraman in the way, I couldn't determine what the object was that the man held, but slowly the cameraman moved away and I watched the woman's eyes follow the object as the other man stepped over to place it at the end of a long table.

  A light click as the room went silent, the low whir of the smoke machines and slowly rotating fans turned off all at once. My eyes tracked the woman's gaze to the object she obviously wanted.

  When I squinted hard enough from the distance I stood away, I finally realized what is was.

  A small, blue asthma inhaler.

  Relief flooded me for only a second. I allowed myself to believe they would help the woman as she was unchained from the fence to be led to the opposite end of the table. The man positioned her, allowed her to splay her hands on the wood surface and catch her balance. Stepping back, he said nothing, did nothing, as she darted a look around the room before leaning forward to grab it.

  Her lips fell apart as she struggled to drag in a breath. Her eyes widening impossibly more as she leaned so far her naked breasts pressed against the table. Arms and fingers fully extended, she'd almost reached it when her fingertip tapped it, knocking it back more. With both her focus and mine locked on that small blue inhaler, the forgotten man in black moved forward.

  He'd removed a hidden codpiece that had been fitted around his hips, his long, hard erection the only flash of skin that poked out from the bodysuit that disguised the rest of him. Slamming a hand down on the woman's back, he prevented her from moving forward to reach the inhaler she needed desperately. And without remorse for what he was doing in front of a camera, lights and a production crew, he kicked her legs apart, fisted her hair and shoved himself inside her body.

  Her mouth stretched into a barely perceptible scream, only the high pitched, breathless sound she struggled to force out.

  The woman was dying, she was running out of air while being raped from behind. My knees locked beneath me in horror and anger.

  I stepped toward the director. To do what, I had no idea, but my body acted before I knew what my mind was doing. The guard's hand clamped over my shoulder.

  Turning, I looked at him and found myself unimpressed with his threatening glare. Eyes narrowed, but with a snide, gloating grin, he waved the gun he was holding slowly between us. Behind me the room was silent, except for the sickening slap of skin. I turned back and wished I hadn't.

  The woman's lips were blue, her body was slumping forward and her mouth open and closed like a fish trapped out of water. A few more minutes and she'd die horribly, her last memories that of a nightmare she couldn't escape.

  Panic gripped me in its icy fingers, the nails digging down into my skin until I was shivering and tugging at the guard's hand. Unable to move, unable to surge forward and at least attempt to help that poor woman who'd done nothing wrong in life besides being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I made a decision that went against every survival instinct I had. What did it matter, anyway? I'd already chosen to die. There was no way I'd choose to fuck as that monster had told me.

  As the woman's body slouched lower, as the man behind her thrust so hard the legs of the table holding the woman were scraping over the floor, I broke the one fucked up rule that bastard director had given me. I opened my mouth and I screamed.

  "Stop! You're killing her!"

  "Cut!" His deep voice roared, his body pivoting to face me, his silver-grey eyes pinning me in place.

  The entire room went still, the stage crew darting shocked glances in my direction, their bodies locked in such stunned disbelief that they resembled mannequins playing the parts of a once live production team. Staring at them kept my attention off the director, until he was creeping up on me, coming so close that the heat of his body could reach out to mingle with mine.

  Not creeping. Not this man. No. His steps had been a pounding drumbeat so in tune with the pace of my heart that I'd missed his approach entirely. At least until his fingers were on me, at least until I felt them gripping my jaw and sending a pulse of pain across the bones and teeth.

  Yanked forward, I barely stayed on my feet. My balance was precarious, my he
els pulled up above the floor as the skin beneath my toes was stretched taut by the manner in which I'd been pulled toward him.

  "What the fuck did I tell you about not making a sound?"

  I'd assumed he'd yell and roar, that he'd demand a bullet being lodged in my brain so far that it left a gaping, open hole on the opposite side of my head. I'd assumed his anger would bellow out of him to match my fear and desperation. But instead, his anger was cold, it whispered, it swept in on a low voice that was more menacing than any loud, powerful sound he could have made in censure of my outburst. If given the choice, I would have preferred that he yelled, because the deep voiced, clipped whisper of words was more terrifying than anything else.

  He'd never intended for me to answer, and without giving me even a second to process his question, he asked another one...and another.

  "You've ruined this film, do you know that? There is no second take, no possibility of fixing what you've destroyed. Would you like to replace that woman on the table just so you can make it up to me?"

  I couldn't talk around the way he gripped my face, but if I'd had the ability, I would have laughed like a mental patient and reminded him I didn't have asthma. How the fuck would I replace a woman they were killing by using her own health against her?

  "I should have you killed for your outburst-"

  Yes, please. Make it quick.

  "But, I have better uses for a woman like you." Leaning closer, his lips brushed across my cheek when he said, "You won't like them, but I will."

  Releasing me as quickly as he'd struck out to grip me in the first place, he watched as I lost my balance, as I tumbled backwards and landed squarely on my ass. The shock of bone against concrete raced up my spine like an electrical current shooting pain though every part of me.

  His gaze dragged up to the guard standing behind me with his gun tucked to his chest like a security blanket. "Take her to the cages. I'll deal with her later."

  Cages? What the hell did he mean by cages? I didn't have time to voice the question before the guard grabbed me and dragged me away. The director was still staring in my direction as I was escorted through the door to find out just what he'd meant by cages.

  EMMA

  Forced through three sets of doors, each leading to something more horrifying than the last, I was finally directed down another long hall, past the showers and into another area that was locked tight with electronic keypads and pneumonic doors. The guard shoved my face down practically to my knees as he keyed in the access code, the electronic beeps sounding in six different tones. Although I hadn't seen the sequence of numbers he pushed, I wondered if I could remember the sounds and repeat them in an effort to escape.

  Not now while this guard held me, but possibly in the future, if I ever managed to run down the halls by myself. It was a long shot, I was sure, and the time it would take me to find the correct sequence made that escape impossible. I wasn't even sure that entering a wrong code wouldn't set off alarms.

  The door hissed open and a cold chill reached out with frozen fingers to caress my naked skin. Forced through the door, I was allowed to straighten my posture, to see the winding hallway with equally spaced single bulbs hanging from the ceiling to light our way. The guard didn't seem to mind the drastic change in temperature, but then, he had clothes to keep out the chill. I was shivering so hard by the time we made a right and a left that I almost missed when the solid walls opened up and transitioned into the bars of individual small cells.

  These were the cages, no doubt, and hidden inside the shadows of each one I saw movement as whoever was trapped scurried back to hide. I highly doubted hiding in the shadows did them much good, but what other choice did they have? It was still a natural instinct to shrink away from a predator, to attempt to disguise yourself from the probing eyes of something much stronger than you that only intended harm.

  Reduced to animals, these women resembled mutts trapped in a pound - forgotten, unloved, and just waiting for the day when their number was drawn for execution.

  We wound our way past three rows of cells, both sides of the walls lined by them. I tried to keep count, but lost the ability after twenty, my attention unfocused as fear and hatred flooded through me. Another turn led to another dark hall where I was led to the end and told, "Stand still."

  It was hard to remain completely still as he'd demanded since my body was shivering violently and my teeth wouldn't stop chattering. After pulling a key from a ring on his side, he unlocked the door to an empty cell and shoved my body inside. Slamming the door closed, he peered through at me from the other side of the bars. "Consider this your new home. I hope you enjoy your stay with us."

  I could still hear him laughing at his poor attempt at a joke as he disappeared down the hall on an unhurried stride. Spinning to glance at the bleak seven by seven square space behind me, I first noticed the steel cot that I assumed was used for a bed and the single, ten gallon bucket in the opposite corner. I didn't want to imagine what it was used for. I wasn't an idiot, it must have been a makeshift toilet, but even the thought of squatting over that thing had me dry heaving on an empty stomach.

  "Fuck," I mumbled, "what the hell have I gotten myself into?"

  I didn't expect an answer, so I jumped when a small voice responded, "Hell being the operative word."

  Spinning to my right, I peered into the cell next to me. A woman lay on the steel cot, her body folded into a fetal position against the grating cold. She didn't move or do anything else to indicate she was alive, but I'd definitely heard her pain-filled voice.

  Padding barefoot over cement floors, I wrapped my fingers around the bars, my eyes squinting against the shadows to attempt to see her features. "How long have you been here?" I asked, my voice quiet for fear a lingering guard would hear me.

  She groaned as she shifted on the steel that must have felt like ice. "I came in with you, don't you remember? Apparently, I'm now a star."

  My eyes widened, my jaw dropping open. She was the woman being shocked into silence. "Are you okay?"

  "No," she groaned again. "I'm not. And I'm starting to believe I should have chosen death."

  My thoughts traced back to the second studio, my expression tightening with dismay. "Um, no. I hate to tell you, but that option is even worse. Sure, you'd be free of this place by now, but you'd go out the same way as the film he made of you. The only difference is they would torture you until you're dead."

  She didn't respond immediately and when I heard the soft sniffles, I knew she was crying. Tears welled in my eyes instantly, her pain reminding me of my own. I didn't know if it was shock, adrenaline or something else that kept me standing during the horrible events I’d witnessed, but somehow I’d managed to get through this place without falling onto the ground into a trembling, screaming puddle of flesh.

  Not knowing what to say that wouldn't hurt her more, I went with a simple question. "What's your name?"

  "Melanie," she answered, her voice disjointed as she struggled to speak clearly. The cold captured the soft brush of vowels, the pain punctuating the clipped consonants. Several seconds passed before she spoke again. "Melanie Patrick."

  Despite the lack of necessity, she'd given me her full name. Perhaps, it was a polite mannerism beat into her as a child, or the woman lying in shadow just wanted someone to know that she'd died here. Remembering she had a son, I almost asked his name just to keep her talking, but I decided forcing her to think of the little boy she wasn't home to hug would only cause her more pain.

  "My name is Emma," I whispered back at her. "Emma Hart."

  She didn't respond and I continued talking to fill the silence. I hoped my voice could be a balm to the agony and fear that she was feeling. It's what my mom had done for me when I was young, always pulling out my favorite storybook to read to me when I was stuck in bed with some sickness. I wasn't always awake enough to listen to the stories she told, but just the sound of her voice soothed me. It let me know that somebody was near, that somebo
dy valued me enough to love me.

  "I was stolen from a street in downtown Boston. Stupid me had decided it was a good idea to jump out of an asshole's car in the worst part of town thinking I would be safe long enough to catch a cab. Unfortunately, not many taxis drive through that area, so I walked a couple blocks hoping to get somewhere better. I was snatched by the third block, dragged into an alley and stuffed inside a van."

  My voice quieted as I readied a new story to tell her. The first one seemed too depressing. But before I could speak again, she filled the silence with her tiny, tear filled voice. "You don't sound like you're from Boston."

  Surprised by her response, I stared over at her to see her shoulders shaking in the dim light. "I'm from Florida originally. Orlando, specifically. Down there is such a clusterfuck of tourists that we really don't have accents. I'm not really sure why that is, but it's what my mom always told me."

  Soft laughter floated between us. At least I'd given her that much, the opportunity to find some humor in this miserable place.

  "I'm from Charleston, but I don't have the accent either. I moved there with my fiancé a year before he up and left me." The admission must have stripped away all the humor I'd given her. She was quiet for a moment before saying, "But that's just another sad story in a long line of them. I'm originally from Colorado."

  "I've always wanted to visit there. It's gorgeous in all the pictures."

  A beat of silence and then, "I guess, depending where you are. It has good parts and bad, just like any state."

  My toes were going dumb from the cold concrete at my feet, icy spears ramming up my legs as that cold chased the network of nerves through my body. Not wanting to sit down where it was gross, I realized quickly there wasn't a safe choice in this place. I highly doubted the guards came in here after a woman was dead just to sanitize. Giving my feet some relief, I finally slid down to the floor, a hiss of breath bursting over my lips to feel the concrete rubbing against sensitive places.