The Director

by Lily White

  Meticulous. Businesslike. Lacking warmth, emotion, remorse or regret. His desire to produce this film - his need to create his art - was the only driving factor for Ethan Cole. He may think he'd figured me out already, but in turn, I was learning about him just the same.

  Pulling his feet from the desk, he sat up in his seat, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He'd pushed up to his full height before speaking again. "So, with that having been said, and a decision laid out for you to make, this conversation is over. I'll walk you back to where you'll be sleeping tonight."

  "Do you really think I'll be sleeping tonight?"

  Walking toward me, he reached down to grip my bicep and pull me from my seat. His skin was warm against mine, smooth and soft, as if he'd never worked a manual job in his life. My hands were the opposite, only because of all the odd jobs I'd taken as a teen to help support my family.

  "With better accommodations, it's my hope that you will. You'll need strength for tomorrow. It's like I said: killing another person isn't easy. It takes focus and the ability to move, the strength to pull a trigger, or plunge a blade into another person's body. I haven't decided what weapon you'll be given yet. Regardless of that, I know you'll need sleep in order to use it."

  Without giving me a chance to respond, he led me out of his office, past the guard waiting outside, and further down the hall in the opposite direction of the cages. We reached a non-descript door on the left. He opened it and shoved me inside. Only when it closed again, the lock clicking into place, did I turn to survey my surroundings.

  It wasn't five star accommodations, more like a dive motel in the middle of nowhere, but it was better than the frozen tundra and steel cots of where I'd been kept previously. A twin bed sat against a wall to my left, the mattress covered by a drab, brown blanket that looked scratchy. To my right was a steel sink-toilet combo. Cringing at the thought of how that worked, I turned away from it and looked for anything else. Nothing. Just a bed and a sink-toilet. I'd graduated from cages hardly good enough for animals to a prison intended for humans.

  Yay for me.

  EMMA

  Morning greeted me with a slap to the face - literally and figuratively. A guard stood above me, his eyes scanning down where the scratchy blanket had dropped low enough to reveal my bare breasts. I yanked it up out of instinct and modesty, but then remembered there was no point. He'd see me naked as a jaybird in a few minutes regardless. But instead of demanding I get up to follow him to my next version of hell, he simply tilted his head in the direction of the far wall and announced, "Breakfast. You have ten minutes to eat before you're taken to the showers."

  My stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and I assumed it wasn't poisoned or drugged because Ethan needed me strong and alert for my performance. The thought of it scraped against my thoughts, the question of whether I was willing to kill to save my own life.

  You would think it'd be a simple decision, but it's not. What kind of life am I saving in the end? One where I'd constantly have to fight? One where I'd be abused and probably end up dead anyway? Why sully my soul with having taken a life before I had to face my maker? Murder was sin, just like premarital sex, but that decision had been taken from me. Or it would have been if I hadn't already given up my virginity long before I was stolen. Still, some religions and cultures believed that to be raped was a sin on the part of the woman, regardless of her choice in the matter. The thought disgusted me as I crawled out of the uncomfortable bed to pad barefoot to where the guard had left the food tray.

  Lifting the silver dome, (Seriously?), I found a yellow concoction that looked like scrambled eggs, some dry toast, a small plastic bottle of water and a plastic spork. Damn, I was hoping with the dome that these idiots would have continued their room service presentation by giving me actual silverware. Like a knife I could shove under the guard's ribs. Or a fork I could shove in Ethan's eye. Either would have done, but I wasn't sure I could cause much damage with a plastic spork.

  Grabbing the plastic utensil, I squatted down, because I refused to sit on the toilet-sink combo to eat, and scooped up some of the eggs into my mouth. They were bland, lacking salt or any seasoning, but the warmth traveled down my throat and into my empty stomach easing some of the fetid hunger that gripped it. After finishing those, I forced the dry toast down with the room temperature water. My bladder called for attention next, and I used the steel toilet after reminding myself it was better than the ten gallon bucket in the cage.

  My thoughts drifted to Melanie and I hoped like hell she was okay. After what was done to her on stage and in the medical room, I worried about infection and death by cold in the cages.

  The guard entered the room as that thought danced across my mind, holding his gun to his chest like a good little soldier as he escorted me to the showers.

  "Take a bag of essentials -"

  I held up a hand to silence him. "Yeah. I know the drill."

  The warmth of the shower was heaven once again and I wished I could live inside the gossamer curtain of steam for the rest of my life. How much life I had left was anybody's guess, so perhaps these few moments I had to myself were the majority of it. I knew I was being led to the set next, knew I would have to make a choice of whether to kill or be killed. If I'd known that lying there like a log and letting the asshole kill me would ruin Ethan's film, I'd have done it with a smile on my face. But Ethan profited either way, so there was no point in automatically choosing that option.

  Could I really end somebody's life? Could I make that choice and follow through with it? Was there enough anger inside me to find the strength to be so vicious?

  Thinking about Ethan drove my anger to a boiling point, the image of his face in my thoughts enough to make me want to stab him to death. But could I actually do it? It's easy to fantasize about, but entirely different when faced with the choice.

  My stomach threatened to expel the breakfast I'd eaten, my body jerked out of the shower when the guard decided I'd had enough time to get clean. I toweled off like he'd instructed, dropping the towel before leaving the room because I wasn't looking forward to the butt of his gun meeting my face.

  We turned left instead of right and I knew I was being led to set. My feet grew heavier with each step, my stomach churning harder as I ran out of time to make my decision. Regardless of what I chose to do, I was terrified either way. My legs were shaking so badly by the time we reached a door that my knees slammed together forming red marks on the skin.

  The guard opened the door and shoved me in. What I thought would be a set staged for my rape and torture turned out to be a kind looking old lady smiling back at me. "Welcome to makeup. We have you beautiful in shortly."

  Her broken English perfectly matched her accent. I couldn't place it, however, so I still had no clue what country I was in. I wondered if I could squeeze the information out of her. I also wondered how any woman could work in this environment and not go to the police. She had to know women were being raped and killed after she have them beautiful in shortly.

  Why did I need to be beautiful anyway? They hadn't done that for Melanie or the asthmatic woman. None of this place made sense. Not that a film studio making rape and snuff films should have made sense in the first place. Not to me at least. Maybe to an FBI profiler, or some other person used to investigating human trafficking crimes.

  "Come, come. Sit." The last word sounded more like seet than sit, but I understood her regardless. A light, soft fabric hit me in the face, I caught it as it slipped off my chin. I hadn't even noticed the women pick it up to toss in my direction. Glancing down at my hands, I saw that it was a slinky, white silk negligee.

  "Costume. You wear. Seet!"

  She was way too enthusiastic about getting me ready for torture and death. The slinky silk was better than being naked, so I pulled it over my head and seet in the chair like she'd asked. After taking the seat and being spun to face a brightly lit mirror, I squinted at my reflection and wondered what was happening. I was b
eing led to the slaughter, but still taking the time to let an old woman dry my light brown hair into loose curls and apply insane amounts of makeup.

  Like most people in life, I'd envisioned how I would die. All of those ideas never included this version of events. Hell, I doubted even a writer could concoct something so insane. It went against everything we knew in life to think that a woman would go through wardrobe, hair and makeup just to be led to her death.

  The door burst open behind us and I assumed it would be another lumbering guard with his automatic weapon security blanket tucked tightly to his chest. But when a deep, cultured voice spoke in a foreign language to the woman applying my makeup, my hatred of that particular man bubbled to the surface, my eyes narrowing into tight slits before I focused in the mirror at his reflection.

  Having neglected to shave the stubble from his cheeks, jaw and chin, Ethan sauntered in wearing a fresh, expensive suit in a dark charcoal, with a lighter grey shirt underneath. Then colors brought out the metallic steel in his eyes, perfectly contrasting with his raven black hair that was stylishly disheveled. The top buttons of his shirt were undone revealing a triangle of tan skin. An easy smile graced his lips as he spoke to the woman and waited for her to leave.

  I didn't bother turning my chair to look at him. As far as I was concerned, he was a monster that deserved a painful demise. I eyed the large scissors the woman had left behind, wondering if I were fast enough, could I stab him and run away to make my escape from Hell?

  "You could try," he said without my having said a word. My eyes darted up at his reflection to see him making a pointed look between the scissors and me. "You'll need that kind of anger and hatred for today. If you'd like to practice on me, that's fine. But I'm not sure you'll make it that far with a guard stationed outside the door."

  He'd read my mind. I wondered if I thought he was a pompous ass that deserved to be strung up and flayed, would he hear that, too?

  "You look lovely," he remarked, still standing behind me as his focused gaze scrutinized every delicately curled strand of my hair, every sweep of pink blush across my cheekbones, every stroke of dark brown mascara weighing down my eyelashes. I hated that my back was to him and yet the mirror made it possible for him to see everything about me.

  "You would have been admired in Hollywood back in the day. It's too bad actresses have become so skinny and scrawny lately. They used to be curvy like hourglasses in past decades."

  My eyes met his in the mirror. "I'd hardly call my figure an hourglass. I'm about as average as they come."

  It wasn't modesty that forced the words from my mouth. It was the plain, honest truth. I had light brown hair and blue eyes that were nothing spectacular. I wore a size six, my breasts and hips only a slight curve from my frame. There was nothing about me I considered extraordinary or memorable. Just a normal girl, who lived a normal life, up until she was stolen away to become the plaything for a monster.

  "Hourglass, you are not. But average isn't something to turn your nose up to. You've had no plastic surgery, which is remarkable. A natural beauty will always draw the eye faster than a woman with plumped lips, pulled skin, unnaturally large and perky breasts or whatever procedures they throw their money at. Average has become the new extraordinary, and you have that in spades."

  It was difficult to interpret Ethan, difficult to reconcile how a man who seemed almost ordinary could exist in a nightmarish landscape. Monsters were supposed to be ugly and contrite, bitter with jagged edges. But Ethan, with his cultured, smooth voice, charming mannerisms and compelling features was a misnomer - a surprise element that didn't fit the mold of what I considered a rapist or murderer. It threw me off guard when I took the time to pay attention. Like now, when he'd said something that made my heart swell with pride.

  "Have you decided yet whether you'll kill or be killed?"

  My heart deflated the second the words left his mouth.

  "No," I answered, my expression darkening as he stepped up behind me, placed his hands on my shoulders and rubbed at the knots in the muscles. His hands were strong, and I happened to love strong hands, but just the fact that he was touching me made me want to run to the bathroom to puke.

  "Good. I was hoping to catch that decision on film. It's an experience not many people have had. Sure, it's happened in movies, but it's never real. Actors can only do so much. The genuine moments are what's important, the ad libbed lines and emotions that nobody saw coming."

  My eyes flicked up to his through the reflection. "And who exactly sees these films? Is there an actual audience for your crimes? Or do you do this for your own perverse pleasure?"

  "First, I've committed no crime. And second, I have a large audience, but that's none of your concern. The only thing you need to worry about is your performance." Pulling a hand away from my shoulder, he looked at his watch. "Which, we're almost late for."

  Purposely catching my gaze in the mirror, he asked, "Are you ready for your close-up, Ms. Hart? Very soon all cameras will be on you."

  EMMA

  Ethan left me in the room, only a few seconds passing while I was alone before the older lady returned to finish my makeup with several streaks of bright red lipstick that was wrong for my skin tone.

  A guard entered a few minutes later, briskly shooing me from the seat to lead me down another winding hall toward another nondescript door. I'd grown to hate these doors, and I knew that if I had an hour alone with an ax, I'd chop them all down. Then again, I think most of them were steel and not wood, so the physical effort would be wasted, but not the satisfaction of beating against them until they were dented and twisted.

  Opening the door, the guard turned sideways to let me walk through. He remained at my back the entire time I stepped forward, slowly and gingerly, as I took in the surroundings. It wasn't until this particular moment that the weight of what would happen sat squarely on my shoulders, reality whispering in my ear that, onstage, I would be assaulted. A man would try to rape me and kill me, and if I didn't choose to become a killer myself, he would succeed.

  Would Ethan even care? Or would he just call cut, have the film taken to editing and call for a new stage to be set for the next helpless victim?

  My senses were on high alert. So much so that I could smell the hairspray in my hair, and pick up the notes of pasty lipstick and thick skin foundation. Every step of my feet was a drum counting down my execution, and my pounding pulse became thunder in my ears. I stopped at some point, roughly halfway between the door and the stage, the guard reminding me to keep moving forward by tapping me in the back with his gun.

  When I was within feet of the stage, a door opened to my side, Ethan stepping forward with an expression that was the epitome of professionalism and intense focus. He was no longer the man who'd complimented me for being average, no longer the man who'd halfway joked with me when I'm been called into his office. He was now himself, the Director, the monster behind the boisterous laugh. The artist who had no moral fiber or concerns other than ensuring he caught the right emotions on film.

  His stride was long and sure, fluid and graceful as he came to stand beside me. One look at the guard sent the man and his gun away, relegating him to the back of the room while Ethan took his fun in baiting me.

  His voice low, he spoke with no concern for my emotional state. This was business, plain and simple, whether I agreed with that assessment or not. "I know you were taken from Boston. What I don't know is how."

  People milled around us silently as they set the finishing touches on stage, as they assembled their cameras and put them in the precise locations necessary for capturing every horrifying detail of the film Ethan was making. Not one person looked in my direction while I stood and spoke with a madman about my abduction.

  "Well, you see, I was having a normal day on the farm when a tornado hit. My small brown dog and I were swept up and brought here to the land of Oz."

  Ethan's lips twitched. "Excellent film. Would that make me the Wizard?"


  "Yes, except instead of being greeted with song and dance, I was greeted by rape and slaughter."

  "Times have changed. They were far more conservative in the 1930s."

  Rolling my eyes, I fought not to cry. "When do I get my ruby slippers?"

  He didn't react to the question, his keen eye studying the details of the set, analyzing it and planning how to get the most critical shot. "How did they take you?"

  Resigned to my fate, I answered, "I was walking down the street when they saw me and took me. Dragged me into an alleyway and shoved me into a van."

  "Why were you on the street alone?"

  Turning, I glanced at him, studied his profile that was all sharp lines and strong angles. He was very handsome, startling really when you looked closely at his features. He could have been an actor himself, the cameras would have loved him. "I was out on a date with a man who believed buying me dinner gave him the right to do whatever he wanted to me. As if a thirty dollar meal was enough of a payment to make me spread my legs."

  Ethan absently shook his head, his eyes still focused on the set. "Some men have no imagination. They'll use the same tricks over and over again not realizing their methods are out of style. So he kicked you out of his car onto the sidewalk?"

  "No. I kicked myself out, refusing to spend another second with him."

  "You were angry," he said, more a statement than a question.

  "Of course, I was angry."

  "Good. Remember that anger. Some man thought your body was only worth the price of a two hour dinner and a thirty dollar meal. There's a lot to be angry for with that. So, you left his car. Stormed down the sidewalk. Were you walking home?"

  Swallowing hard, I ignored the tears welling in my eyes as I looked up at the bedroom being staged. The bed was large and luxurious with silk sheets, a thick, white down comforter, four posters that stood tall at each corner, carved intricately until they formed spires above the bed.