by Lily White
"No. I thought I would be able to flag down a cab, but I didn't realize cabs don't normally cruise through that area of town. It was at least ten blocks from the businesses in one direction and even farther from the neighborhood brownstones in the other."
Raising his hand in the air, Ethan snapped his fingers. "Put the table catty corner to the right, not straight along the wall, I want the reflection of the mirror visible, but not so much that it's reflecting the cameras."
The crew hurried to follow his instructions, replacing a makeup vanity from where it had previously been positioned in order to appease Ethan's demands.
Leaning close to me, Ethan whispered as his cologne wafted up to tickle my nose. The scent was divine, masculine and earthy with just the right amount of musk to be desirable. "You were alone and helpless in a bad part of town. Seems like the beginning of some ridiculous movie that follows all the common tropes used in film. The procurement team grab you, drag you down a dark alley, and shove you in a van-"
"Procurement team?" I repeat, turning to him and wishing I hadn't. Our mouths were much too close, far too intimate. "They were kidnappers."
"Semantics," he answered, brushing off the ugly truth. "They stuff you in a van. What happened next?"
"They blindfolded me and gagged me. Tied my legs at the ankles and my arms at the wrists. One man was driving while the other stayed in the back with me. I was lying on top of a nasty, crusty carpet that made me sick. They started arguing in a language I didn't understand. Then-"
My voice trailed off, the memory of what was done to me horrifying. A lump formed in my throat as I watched the crew lay out rugs over the stage floor beside the bed.
"Then?" Ethan's question dragged me back to the conversation. Twisting just enough to look at him, my breath caught when our eyes met. His gaze always probed me, was always so intense that it caught me off guard and sliced me down the middle revealing all that I had inside.
Speaking around the hard lump in my throat, I answered, "Then I was raped."
His expression twisted with disgust. Not at the rape, but at my feeble description. "Give me more. How did he rape you? Were you on your back? Did he touch you first? Did he make you touch him? Did you come?"
"No, I didn't come! I was being raped!"
His eyes flicked between me and the stage, his shoulder shrugging negligently between us. "That means nothing. I've seen many women orgasm while being raped. Their faces can't hide the surprise, their expressions twisting with more disgust at themselves than the man assaulting them. It's the best moment in the film, really. The moment when their own bodies betray them. It's actually quite common. Unless-" He pinned me in his stare, ignoring the rage rolling behind my eyes. I knew for a fact he didn't fail to notice the anger. Ethan noticed everything. "Have you never orgasmed, Ms. Hart? Is that the problem?"
"That's none of your business!"
He grinned, turning his focus back to the set. "That answers my question. It's a shame. I hope you survive today. Dying before having the opportunity to experience an orgasm would be sad."
I didn't bother to dignify his statement with a response. Of course I'd orgasmed before. At least, I thought I did. Sex wasn't as heart stopping as Hollywood or romance novels would lead you to believe. It was nice, I guessed. Messy sometimes, but nice.
"What happened when you were raped?" Ethan asked again, refusing to drop the topic as we waited to film.
My thoughts raced back to that moment. To that van. To the crusty, disgusting carpet that burned against my cheeks. To the tears that spilled down making the crust of the carpet slimy against my skin. "The men kept arguing, but the one holding me in place flipped my skirt and took me from behind. The weight of his body crushed my face into the floor of the van. The smell was horrifying. The carpet filthy. He didn't care that he was hurting me. Didn't care that I was crying."
As I described the moment, fury ignited inside me, indignation a slow flame that suddenly exploded into rage. Heat chased across my bones, seeping from my skin until I felt I would melt right there next to the stage, setting the entire room on fire.
Ethan watched closely, his lips curling as he witnessed the anger building inside me. Once I was to a point where I thought the top of my head would pop off from the pressure of my blood, he leaned even closer until his mouth was brushing my ear. "Hold on to that feeling when you see your rapist again. I don't want to watch you die onstage today. I think you're better than that. The man who raped you is a seventeen year old kid. A little punk who didn't give a damn he was violating you. He told me he liked it. That you were tight and so wet by the time he was done taking what he wanted without giving a damn about how you felt. He's excited to do it again. He wants all of you this time. Your tits, your cunt, your ass, your mouth. All of it, Ms. Hart. And he won't feel bad about it. You're not the only woman he's taken like that. You're just another tempting pussy in a long line of others."
He paused, his excited breath a warm, pulsing caress down my neck. "He'll do it again after finishing with you. He'll hurt more women and he'll enjoy it, becoming more sadistic with each encounter. If you want to be a hero for yourself, or even for others like you were yesterday when you ruined my film in an attempt to save that woman's life, you'll use the weapon I give you to end that little punk's life. You'll bathe in his blood knowing how many people you'll save from the same horrible experience he put you through. Keep that in mind while you're up there. If you can't kill to protect yourself, do it to protect other women who aren't as strong as you."
I lost my battle against my tears. Slowly they broke free of my eyes to trickle down my cheeks, a hot, wet stream of sorrow and fear. "I'm not strong. I've never been a hero, nor have I wanted to be one. I'm just a normal girl."
His hand splayed over the small of my back, the contact shocking and unexpected. As the warmth of his hand seeped down into the silk of my negligee and into my skin, he whispered, "I've already told you not to rue being normal. And you're stronger than you think. Do you realize you're the only woman who ever chose to die when I presented the option? That's what made you stick out among the rest. That is the hallmark of strength. You would die before giving up your body to strangers."
It was difficult to speak with trembling lips. "That was before I knew that dying meant being raped and tortured anyway."
"Yet, you screamed and ruined my film regardless because you saw a dying woman. With no concern for your own life, you spoke up to save hers."
More tears fell as I admitted, "I was hoping to anger you enough that you ordered the guard to shoot me."
His laughter burst against my ear, the sound melodic. "I wanted to strangle you with my own bare hands, but I recognized the fire inside you. I want to capture that fire, Emma. Want to preserve it for the ages. Show it to me when you walk on stage today and for the love of film, quit crying."
My hands clenched into fists, the moment I would be forced to make a horrifying decision creeping ever so close. "Why does it matter if I'm crying?"
He was silent for a second. "Because you'll ruin your makeup and we don't have time to get it fixed. Ready or not, my beautiful girl, it's show time."
EMMA
The large lights surrounding the stage popped on with resounding flare, the bulbs bursting with white heat, the umbrellas both amplifying the light as well as softening it. Above the stage, more lights came to life, pastel in color to highlight each grimace, each wide eyed moment of terror, each tear.
Ethan stepped away from me leaving me standing in place as he marched around yelling his curt demands about where each crew member should take their place. My heart picked up its beat, blood racing through my veins punishing me with more pressure, more adrenaline, more heat.
I swayed where I stood blinded by large imposing lights that would chase away the shadows hiding me. They would reveal every imperfection, every line in my skin, every pore, every freckle, every mole.
A hand touched my arm, the hard cruel surface of metal pre
ssing against my back to remind me that the guards would always be there when Ethan wasn't.
"You need to climb up the steps, sweetheart. Today you get to be a star." His tone was mocking and saccharine sweet, the singsong croon making it obvious he enjoyed leading me to my fate. I would have turned around and raked my fingernails down his face if I knew my shaking legs could hold me.
My mind raced with what had already happened to me and what was to come. The abduction, the rape, the films I'd been forced to witness, the freezing cages, Ethan's demands, hair and makeup - EVERYTHING. It flashed and flickered, swirled and spread, a fungus that was creeping until it threatened to swallow me whole. Shock must have prevented my terror, horror silencing me with a non-existent gag, and now that the moment was upon me that I would have to endure the agony of rape again or choose to kill, could I really force myself up those rickety wooden stairs, climb on that stage and wait patiently for a man to enter that had every intention of hurting me?
"No."
The softly spoken word came out before I understood that it wasn't just inside my head.
"What?" the guard spoke with laughter in his voice behind me.
"No," I refused louder, more certain, ready to deal with beating blows if necessary rather than climb those stupid fucking stairs up to that horrifying stage.
The tip of his gun poked into the center of my spine. Slowly drawing in a breath, the pressure of the gun against my back increased as my lungs expanded, easing again as I blew out the breath.
Leaning forward, the guard practically growled. "Don't think I won't put this bullet through your heart for not obeying me."
A bullet. One quick burst of pain, one small piece of metal forcing itself through my body, tearing through my skin, my muscles, my spine and heart. How long would it take for the blood to fill my chest cavity and compress my lungs? How many minutes could my brain go without oxygen before I fell unconscious, sinking deeper and deeper into oblivion and escaping this life? Would I know I was dying? Would I even have time to come to that understanding before my body collapsed? Would my spirit break free into the ether, walk away from this place and into the light?
I didn't know, but it sounded better than what I faced walking up those three wooden stairs onto a stage where Ethan would film his newest masterpiece. I didn't want to be a star. I didn't want to be a masterpiece. I wanted to be what I was before this nightmare - normal and ordinary.
"No," I repeated, tension running across my shoulders, my mind accepting death, but my body still bracing for it. Despite knowing you were okay with death, there was still an instinct to avoid it, to protect yourself, to run. It took iron will for me to remain in place with a gun to my back. It took a bit of insanity to not work with my captor but against him. It took the fire that Ethan had so easily seen in me to draw in another breath, close my eyes and wait for the guard to pull the trigger.
But instead of the soft click of the trigger and loud explosion of gun powder, I heard a smooth, deep voice ask a question with five irritated words.
"What is going on here?"
The pressure of the gun was yanked from my back, that small point where it had been pressed against me still tingling over my skin.
"She won't go upstairs," the guard answered, confusion and annoyance edging his words as he responded to Ethan. His tone was softer when faced by his boss, not as abusive as it had been when directed at me.
"Go stand at the back of the room. I'll deal with her."
My insanity bubbled over in a short burst of sound across my lips. I wouldn't call it a laugh. It was more bizarre than that. A sound of resignation, maybe. A touch of madness that clearly illustrated just how easily I'd lost my mind. Ethan believed I had more strength than others, but at this moment I would have sworn I broke more easily than the rest. They may have given up their bodies, but I'd handed over my mind, my heart and soul on a silver platter.
I felt him before I heard him again, the heat of his body pressed against my back. His pants brushing against the silk barely covering my bottom. The soft caress of his breath against my ear when he leaned forward to whisper.
"What do you think you're doing? We have a schedule to keep, Ms. Hart."
There was a razored urgency lining each clipped word, a time clock ticking down the seconds towards the slap of the clapboard. I was certain if I turned to look, I would find the woman standing at the ready, her lips pursed, her hand holding the top of the clapboard up, her body still and waiting for when she could slam it back down to announce that the crew should start filming. It was difficult to find it inside myself to care. He wouldn't force me up those steps, wouldn't break me in my refusal to obey. I was beyond that now, in a small padded cell in my head, laughing with garish delight at how easily my mind had snapped.
"I'm not doing this," I answered, “I can’t,” my words breathless and matter of fact.
Ethan's palm touched my wrist, slid up my forearm and over my bicep. The contact was tender and elusive, a promise of violence that didn't come with the sting of a beating. It was seductive in its warmth, compelling in how gentle it was.
His chest beat against my back on soft laughter, the sound emanating from his lips in stark opposition to the words of a monster. "I have ways of convincing you, Emma. Would you like to hear them?"
"Not really, but I'm sure you'll insist on telling me anyway."
"I thought we'd learned self preservation last night." His fingers tightened over my arm, the backs of them brushing against the side of my breast. My body shouldn't have reacted, but it did, my lungs pulling in a deeper breath to smell his cologne while my skin felt like it heated where he touched.
"I must have forgotten already. Stress will do that to you."
His cheek brushed against mine, not intentionally, I assumed, only because of how far he leaned into me, how closely our bodies were to each other. "You're playing with your life."
"Isn't that what you're doing? What's the matter, Ethan? Didn't your mom teach you to share your toys? Am I not allowed to play as well?"
His breath rushed down my neck, his voice a seductive croon that made me shiver. There was no doubt about it now, I'd fully and completely lost my mind and given up.
"Oh, you're allowed to play, little girl. Up on that stage where all can see just how lovely you are."
"I'm not doing it. You'll have to find another woman who is willing...or not willing. I'm not sure it makes a difference to you."
"It doesn't," he answered back, as if his response was a given. "Here's the offer I'm willing to make you, Emma. I think I have your number by now, a knowledge of what makes you tick. Either you'll walk up on that stage and act out the little fantasy I have for you, or I'll drag every woman I have in the back cages onto the stage and let you watch them beaten, tortured and raped, one by one. Do you know how long it would take to get through all of them? How many deaths do you think you could witness before you break? My guess is not many. Eventually you'll scream your little lungs out and beg me to stop. I'm sure I could send out my procurement team to find younger ones. Teeny tiny little innocent things that will die horribly because you refused to play along."
I shivered at the thought, my pulse racing beneath my skin. I was sure he could feel every jagged beat beneath his fingers where they clutched my arm.
"You wouldn't," I hissed out, horrified by the thought.
His laughter shook against my back. "I'm not a stupid man. And for as much as I've been studying and learning about you, I know you've been learning about me just as much. So, knowing what you know, why don't you tell me just how far I'd go to get what I want?"
While it was true I had been learning about him, I had the distinct feeling Ethan was like a sour onion with many layers that only made you cry harder the closer you got to his core. But for all of those layers, all the opportunities he missed in life to show he had some semblance of moral character, I found it hard to believe that he was so lost to his evil that he would get hard over the slaughter
of children. I said as much, he stilled against me to hear it, his steady breath the only thing letting me know he was alive and listening.
"First, you should know that I don't get hard for just anything. Not children, and not bratty little actresses that refuse to do as they're told." Pressing his hips against my butt, he made his point clear. There wasn't even the hint of an erection poking me.
"Second, while I personally view slaughtering children as something so abhorrent it's beneath me, I'm willing to do whatever it takes for my art. That is what makes me hard, Emma, the completion of my films, and if I have to drag little orphans in with their wide eyes, chubby little cheeks and filthy little sticky hands to flay them open right in front of you, I'll do it just to watch you squirm. So, tell me, are you going to climb those stairs, or do I need to make good on my threat?"
"I hate you," I growled between clenched teeth.
"Good, use that to save your life on stage. I'd hate to see you die so easily. Now walk up those steps before I drag you up there myself."
Previously, in life, I never had many issues willing my body to do something. It's an inborn ability for every form of life, the nervous system stemming from a brain that travels down the body connecting to every organ, every appendage, practically every square inch of skin. There's no conscious thought involved in the brain deciding it wanted to move forward and accomplishing that feat by sending a signal down that long network of nerves to the leg, the ankle, the foot and toes. As soon as the signal arrives, the muscles move into action. The foot shuffles forward, the leg lifting it and setting it down again just in time for the other foot to follow. Left. Right. Left. Right. Simple as that.
Perhaps when first learning, it takes coordination and skill, but after twenty-two years, it's a simple function. Brain to leg, leg to foot, and the body is mobile.
Just not for me at that moment. My brain was telling my feet to move, but in an act of rebellion and fierce determination, my feet threw up their rebel flag and silently proclaimed that they were seceding from the union of my body, creating their own independent life separate from what my brain wanted, and would not be answering the calls to move.