The Director

by Lily White

  "I don't think I'll ever see my son again."

  Sobs broke apart her whispered confession, the fear so forceful that it had burst from the confines of her heart to seep out on labored breath and tremulous words. Pure sorrow sat beside me on the other side of the bars, the embodiment of bitter agony and insurmountable remorse. What's worse is that I knew her worries were true. She never would see the child she'd given life. She would never hold him again, and he would never hold her. My heart clenched at the thought.

  "Tell me about him."

  I wasn't afraid of hurting her by bringing him up, not like I'd been the last time. In truth, if there was any possibility of adding just a touch of happiness to her now, it would be by blanketing her thoughts in her memories of him. The power of her love for her son was stronger than her hatred of her present circumstance. In a world where she'd lost every shred of joy she once had, the love of her son was the last bit of warmth they couldn't steal from her.

  Her lips tugged into a sad smile. "His name is Kyle, after my grandfather who raised me. His eyes are a warm brown, like chocolate struck through by caramel. And his smile," her mouth stretched wider, "his smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It's pure sunshine beaming out from his chubby face."

  Settling down on the concrete floor, I rested my head against the bars. I wouldn't invade her memories with my voice. If it took hours, I'd wait patiently while she swam in the deluge of her son's image, of the films playing in her head that were powerful enough to drown out the films she'd been forced to watch today.

  "Kyle loves animals," she finally breathed out. "The same can't be said for people, but who can blame him? He's so shy, but then again, he's young. I thought he would eventually grow out of it. I used to tell him that he shouldn't be so quiet, that he should get to know people and other children just in case they could be friends." She paused, the memory rolling over in her head. "Now I wish I hadn't told him that. After what's been done to me, I hope he hides forever in a place where he’ll be safe."

  Sighing, I shifted my weight over the cold, hard floor. My eyelids were growing heavy, weighed down by the low hum of the air conditioner that never stopped blowing. The cold in the room perfectly matched the hope dying a slow death inside me.

  As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I'm tired of being so cold. I'm tired of feeling pain every time I move. Those films today, they showed me what happens to women who choose to die. No matter what choice you make, you're destined for agony. Ethan shouldn't ask us fuck or die. It's deceiving."

  Forcing my eyes apart, I fought against my own exhaustion to listen to her talk. "What should he have asked us?"

  "How long we want to suffer."

  Life doesn't always offer you the opportunity to lie and make it believable. Like now when I couldn't argue that anything she'd said was untrue. Our situation was a thick stew of bad choices and worse ones, the only common element being the suffering that came with all of them.

  "I'll never see my son again," she repeated, as if the thought were still boring a hole into her mind to settle among happier memories. "But then again, he never claimed I would, did he? Ethan has a silver tongue, the deceit easily slipping off it. No, he never told me I would actually see my son turn two, he only said I'd live long enough for it to happen."

  Cursing under her breath, she sighed. "I guess it doesn't matter. It's getting late and I'm falling asleep. Here's hoping I don't wake up."

  I would have agreed with her, but I liked Melanie. If she died, it would destroy me, leaving me alone to navigate this place without the friend I'd found in her. How selfish was it to want another person to endure torture just so I could find a few moments of peace? The thought chilled me almost as much as the air.

  Stretching out her willowy frame, she laid down on the steel cot only to curl over herself again. Even in shadow, her lithe frame was obvious. It had only been two days and already she looked like she'd lost weight. Behind me, the screws holding her cot to the wall rattled, the shivering of her body more violent now that it was pressed to the icy steel of her makeshift bed.

  "Hey," I whispered, lifting the blanket from my skin to press the end through the bars. "You should take this."

  Her eyes fluttered open, widening when she finally saw the blanket I held. "Where did you get that?"

  I stuffed more through the bars. The end dropping and brushing over her hip. "Doesn't matter. But you're cold and you need it to sleep."

  Arm uncurling from her chest, she shoved at the blanket, directing it back in my direction. "I can't take it. You need it, too."

  "We'll share," I whispered, insistent that she accept it. "You take it tonight, I'll take it tomorrow night. Back and forth, so we both have a little bit of comfort in this place."

  After shoving the last of it through, I watched Melanie vacillate between taking it and shoving it back. She must have given in to the cold in the end, and when she wrapped it over her body, I smiled.

  "Thank you," she breathed out.

  "You're welcome. Good night."

  Her eyes closed but she still managed to answer, "Good night."

  ETHAN

  The night was running long, the fire in the hearth dying off an hour after Emma was taken from my office. A burst of laughter fell over my lips at the thought of her - of the fire she harbored that eluded her own understanding.

  Even if she had no concept of who she is or what she could become, I saw it, recognized it in her the instant I stepped through the door to examine the new arrivals in that entry room. While the other women trembled and cried, she stood silent, her thin shoulders rolled back in defiance, her eyes tracking my every movement.

  Emma is a predator despite her assurances that a violent bone cannot exist inside her average body.

  How any person could be so blind of their own self confused me. Intelligence and beauty, fire and remarkable strength, that is the woman who will become my greatest accomplishment. I wasn't simply building a character, I was coaxing out the beginning of a legend.

  For the first time in a long time, I'd found a person who excited me.

  Picking up the screenplays for the films I would produce in the morning, I scrubbed my hand across my jaw, my finger sliding over the stubble. No matter how hard I attempted to read over the set designs and concepts, I lost focus, my mind drifting back to one particular film that had become my obsession. The final touches were being put on it, the crew working late into the night to have it ready so that I could present it to a late night guest I was expecting.

  Would he see the genius behind the film? Would he understand that we'd stepped away from the old and repetitive to venture in a direction that no director or studio had yet gone? I could only hope, and as the hours dragged on, I found myself standing by the dying fire with a glass of scotch in my hand, having abandoned the scripts for the next day's films after rereading the same tired lines.

  My mind was fixed on the thought of Emma when a knock sounded at my door. Regretting the disruption, I turned, but refused to move to open it.

  "Come in."

  The door popped open, my production assistant, Brent, stepping through. In his hand was a silver disc encased in plastic, my hands clenching and flexing, my feet carrying me across the floor. Snatching it from his grasp, I left him standing mid-step with his mouth open on a word that never quite made it past his tongue. I was already behind my desk, slipping the disc into my computer by the time he finished that last step.

  "This better have all the cuts I made to it." My gaze snapped up to pin Brent in place. "You made every correction? Do not throw shit at me and pretend I won't notice."

  "Everything that you requested has been done." He spoke like he was standing in front of a firing squad, even holding his hands up like I'd launch myself across the desk in his direction if he so much as gave me a funny look. "We didn't deviate from any of the instructions."

  Satisfied, I clicked play and stood to my full height, crossing my arms over my chest as th
e image faded into view. A bokeh effect blurred out the extraneous details to highlight the star.

  Emma sat on the bed, her body so still, yet powerful. Even as she glanced at the camera, a tear slipping down her cheek, I saw the spark of hatred inside her.

  The scene came into full view, the bokeh fading to reveal the makeup table on her right reflecting the man walking up behind her. His face flashed in that mirror for only a second before the cameras panned left to his stalking body, Emma was a silent figure to the right of the screen, the curves of her body a perfect shadow beneath her negligee where the light caught it just right.

  In him, I felt the hunger, the drive to hunt. In her, it was indecision, fear, but just a hint of the acrid emotion.

  Emma's head turned, and the expression on her face was meant for me. I remembered locking eyes with her in that moment, fighting to keep my face blank in an effort not to interfere with the decision she would make. Fire flamed behind those eyes, utter, blinding hatred shining through.

  She was perfection on stage, a living, breathing incarnation of human desire, hope slashed through by betrayal, of the avalanche of complex emotions that every person faces when danger stands at their back.

  I'd lied to her after filming this, lied while trying to get close enough to subdue her. It wasn't finishing the film that made me hard as a fucking rock, it was the effect of watching something as raw and feral as her while filming it.

  Her nightmare was standing in front of her - no, not her nightmare, no man but me could be that to Emma. But he was a man she despised, her breathing picking up as color chased across her cheeks, draining again to an ashen white when he launched forward. The man's performance was mundane and boring, the same old movements, the clichéd words he'd used to taunt her. I remembered being so angry with her at that point that I wanted to march up on stage to force the knife into her hand.

  Where was the girl who'd questioned me like she had the right? Where was that fire that rolled behind her crystal blue eyes every time she locked her gaze with mine and fired back some ridiculous accusation or comment? For a moment, I’d feared I'd misjudged her, that she would die violently because I was the only person who could find her buttons to push.

  The frame became a close up of her body once the rapist had shredded the silk negligee. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, admired the marks and imperfections of her skin. I found myself reaching to the screen to run my fingertip over the perfect curve of her heaving breasts. So much anger in that small body, so much barely contained rage that I would have sworn it would burst out to set fire to the stage.

  He was inside her, but her face was turned to me, the guilt and confusion flooding her when her body responded to his cock like I knew it would. I'd felt her orgasm while ignoring the spark of jealousy that came to life inside me.

  It had always been my rule to avoid fucking actresses. They were petty and contrite, little polished dolls that could play the part of something more when, in truth, there was nothing inside them. They were chameleons taught to imitate, but when push came to shove, they didn't understand how their roles were always bigger than them. I had no desire to become part of their fantasy, no inclination to indulge a spoiled brat by promising her she was just as pretty as she hoped she could be.

  But yet, with this woman...

  No. I couldn't go there. If I touched that flame, I'd lose the ability to shape it into the roaring inferno I knew it would become.

  Her screams tore through my office, a chorus of pain, of humiliation, of insufferable injustice. But it was in her screams that I knew the transition was happening. Just a tiny inflection in the voice that clued me in to the fury rolling inside her.

  His mistake had been pushing her too far. If he hadn't mocked her, hadn't ripped her open while promising he'd enjoy doing it to others, she may have never made the decision to grab the knife and shred his heart.

  How glorious it had been to watch her fight him in the end. Human nature stripped fully, she'd shirked the veil of civilized behavior to unleash the warrior within.

  This wasn't just a film, it was a one of a kind diary, an intimate recording that could never be duplicated because a beginning this divine could only occur once.

  The film stopped and I stood silent for only a second. My heart raced beneath my ribs, my cock a noticeable weight against my leg. Even now while she was nowhere in sight, she affected me like no other.

  But I would never allow myself to go there. To have her would be to lose her. To lose her would be a travesty I could never forgive.

  "Is Mark Hale waiting for me in the theater room?" Head snapping up, I volleyed the question at Brent.

  Caught off guard, he stammered for a moment before answering, "Yes, he's been here for a few minutes already. I wanted to let you see the film before we prepared it for the theater."

  On a long stride, I left the office, the door slamming against the wall as I passed through. Destiny awaited me in that theater, a future pushing toward creation rather than dreadful repetition.

  Brent practically ran to keep my pace, his labored huffs comical. For a man so out of shape, you would think he'd take the opportunity to tame his own addictions. I would have told him a long time ago to put down the fucking donuts and get out of my studio if his chubby, sticky fingers weren't so brilliant with edits. He was a genius at a computer, one of the only crewmembers who didn't require my constant oversight and direction.

  Reaching the theater room, I slowed my pace, tugged the cuffs of my jacket into place and ran my fingers through my hair. Mark Hale was a big money bastard that had only one concern: his bottom line. If a film wouldn't earn, then it wouldn't be released, but he'd never refused one of mine.

  Not that it meant anything. There weren't award shows for the films we made. It wasn't like the dark web was full of fancy film critics watching with pens furiously scribbling out all the critiques they would give in the Sunday paper. It was a poorly kept secret only accessible to those perverts and sickos that had gained access either through learning from a friend or navigating the dark tunnels themselves.

  Still, without Mark's funding, the studio would close and I'd be cast back to the drivel produced in Hollywood. I couldn't stomach directing another pathetic imitation of what true sorrow and fear looked like. The pretty bitches with their practiced screams, the poorly crafted bad guys with their cliches and fake weapons, the muscle bound hero who always sweeps in at just the right moment with some common quip of a line that makes me want to stab out my eyes.

  It was all so useless. So fake. So patronizing to a commercial crowd that starved for beauty, sex and the bullshit ideals of how women and men should behave.

  None of that garbage was what life was truly about. And it seemed that every time I attempted to introduce truth to film, the producers jabbered their tired mouths droning on about how the crowd wouldn't accept what hadn't already been done to death.

  Oh, that's too graphic. That's too horrible. Nobody will allow that type of ugly truth to disturb their happy little bubbles. They want the fantasy, Ethan, not this type of filth shoved onto the television screens of their perfect fucking homes.

  Fuck them all. I'll do this my way.

  Speaking over my shoulder, I ordered, "Have the film ready to go when I give the signal. This needs to be perfect, Brent. No fuck ups. No equipment malfunctions. Nothing of the sort."

  "On it, Boss."

  He stalked off, well, as much as he could stalk off with that extra weight hugging his thighs making his cheap pants rub together so furiously I was concerned they'd burst into flame. Turning back to the door, I slammed my palm against the wood, pushing it open.

  Mark Hale spun around, his round face tugged inward by his severe expression. Brows pulled together, he narrowed his dark brown eyes in my direction. Thinning blond hair was combed over to hide his bald spots and several small areas of discoloration marred his skin.

  Beneath his wide nose, a poor excuse for a mustache rested atop thin
lips held in a tight line. He was pissed I called him out this late and he hadn't bothered to change into something more snappy than a white polo shirt and tan khakis that had gone out of style ten years ago. His gut tested the strength of the front pleats that ran down those poor pants and I had to bite my cheek to keep from commenting on the cruel abuse of cheap fabric.

  "Mark, normally I wouldn't admit it's good to see you, but tonight will be something special." Extending a hand, I almost laughed when he gripped it and squeezed in challenge. I knew his type. Somewhere deep down, he questioned his own masculinity and felt a show of strength would prove his testosterone levels were higher than mine. Rather than proving to him the truth of my superiority, I pulled my hand away first, allowing him the illusion that he was somehow more of a predator than me.

  In truth, he was just another sick fuck that could only boost his ego by asserting his will on the bodies of helpless women. Pathetic.

  "This better be good, seeing as how I had to come out here in the middle of the fucking night. Don't you ever sleep?"

  "Artists rarely have nine to five hours, and those that do need to remove themselves from the business. Their inspiration is lacking. Would you like a drink?"

  Brushing off the offer by cutting a hand through the air, he shifted his weight to walk down the center aisle steps. Taking a seat, he turned his face to peer back at me. "Are we watching this or what? I have to get back to the house before my bitch of a wife wakes up and finds me gone, and I'd like to visit the cages before leaving. Might as well make the most of my time here since I've been dragged out at this ridiculous hour."

  Above my head, I could hear the team preparing the film in the projector room. The lights in the theater dimmed once they were ready. I took the seat next to Mark, but on the opposite side of the aisle. His cologne was so heavy the cloying scent threatened to choke me. "Before starting this, I want to explain -"

  "It's another snuff film, Ethan," he barked, cutting me off. "If you've seen one, you've seen them all."