The Director

by Lily White

  My lips curled into a smile. "You haven't seen this one. Which is why I needed approval before it was released. I think this particular film will make us far wealthier men than we could ever hope to become."

  Beady eyes narrowing on me, he huffed out a dismissive breath. "Let's just watch the thing and get it over with."

  That wasn't exactly the attitude I preferred for those about to embark of one of my artistic journeys, but what could be done with a person who didn't have it in them to understand the meaning behind each film I directed? Lifting a hand into the air, I snapped my fingers. The theater went dark and the screen came to life, my beautiful Emma coming into focus where she sat atop her bed.

  She was even more magnificent on the big screen, every detail of her expression magnified until you'd be blind to miss each thought, each impression, each staggering emotion that filtered through her head while the man approached. Time stood still for me in that moment, my heart leaping into my throat at the very second the man launched in her direction.

  Screams filled the theater room, my mind so entranced by the film, I failed to look over to gauge Mark's reaction. By the time Emma was straddling the body of the dying man, at the moment she glanced up to stare into the camera with blood dripping down her cheek to dot the floor beneath her, my heart was a staccato rhythm of desire and possibility, of achievement and glorious satisfaction.

  My Emma had performed magnificently.

  The lights in the room brightened and Mark failed to look away from the frozen image of a feral woman where she stared back at us covered in the crimson evidence of her rage.

  "What the fuck was that?"

  "That," I explained with awe in my voice, "was a new version of the snuff film. One wherein the viewer doesn't know who the victor will be. Almost as if watching the gladiators back in the days of the Romans."

  Mark's head swiveled in my direction. "Why did you allow that woman to kill the man? How could you be so stupid? Nobody wants to see that. Our audience has a taste for weak women who are helpless to their dicks and to their weapons. Why would they want to see the woman winning in the end? What the fuck were you thinking? How much money did I lose staging that shit show?"

  Closing my eyes for a brief second, I tightened my fingers over the armrest of my chair, redirecting the violence I wanted to commit against someone so ignorant.

  "We have two audiences, Mark. One who enjoys simple rape and dominance. The other, however, prefers the kill. It is to that audience that this film is intended. Blood is blood regardless of which body spills it."

  His face took on the hue of a ripe tomato, the skin discolorations fading beneath the heated color. "Our audience wants to see pretty bitches slaughtered. They fantasize about being the man taking her body in any way he damn well pleases and then doing the bitch until she's no longer breathing. They don't want to fantasize about the bitch fighting back and making mincemeat of them with a fucking butcher knife. We're not releasing this."

  "We are," I stated firmly, "or you can find a new director." My head snapped in his direction, my eyes locking to his arrogant gaze. "And when you see the money pouring in on this film, you can thank me later. I'm holding firm to this, Mark. My finger is on the pulse of a new twist to the same tired crap you have me directing and I'll be damned to step back and let you bury it."

  Red skin deepening to purple, he glared at me from across the aisle. "And what happens when we get complaints? What happens when we lose their business and they move on to other sites offering films the way they're supposed to be done? What will you do then to make it up to me?"

  Laughter shook my shoulders. "You mean the amateur crap produced in dirty basements and staged garages? Let them watch that crap if they want. Although I suspect we hold the market in this because we've moved past the mundane and boring and given the audience something far more developed and entertaining. They come to us because we aren't like all the others and with this particular film, we'll launch ourselves onto a new level that will have them begging for more. Trust me on this, or find someone else. I'm not bending to your fear of change. We either continue exploring new films, or we become as stagnant as those idiots still filming in their seedy little apartments."

  Grunting, he slammed his hand on the armrest, damn near breaking the thing in the process. "I'll give you this one just because I'm too tired to argue at this hour. But if it fails, I'm taking it out of your ass. You got me? One week, Ethan. That's the amount of time you have to prove to me this film is as revolutionary as you claim it is."

  My smile stretched wider. "One week is all I need. It'll take less time than that for the money to come rolling in. As soon as word gets out, curiosity alone will have men throwing everything they have at us just to view it."

  "It better." Standing up, he brushed his hands down the front of his pants, for what purpose, I didn't know. His efforts did nothing to remove the wrinkles. "Take me to the cages. I need to work out some of this frustration inside me."

  The last thing I wanted to do was stand back and listen to this pig fuck some poor woman trapped in her prison, but he'd given me what I wanted, it was only appropriate I return the favor.

  Standing from my seat, I grinned in his direction. "Some new women were brought in today that may meet with your approval. Normally, I like them to have their first experience on film, but I'm sure I can afford to lose one in order to appease your hunger." Inclining my head in the direction of the exit doors, I said, "Come, I'll take your there myself."

  EMMA

  Sleep eluded me in the cage that night. Unsure how much time had passed, I was in the only position I could find that made me slightly comfortable. My butt was frozen against the steel cot, my back pressed against the bare concrete wall, and my teeth were clenched so tight the enamel probably cracked. But if there was a light to be found in this long dark tunnel, it was the cot at that moment. Yes it was hard and painful against the skin, but it felt like ice, and ice was exactly what I needed.

  Whatever medication they'd given me in medical had worn off and the pain of my stitches was a constant radiation up my body, a burn that was only soothed when I sat with my ass planted firmly against the steel. When you're stuck in a situation as hellish as mine, it was the small comforts that mattered, and for that one moment at least, I'd found that comfort, no matter how truly depressing it was.

  After an hour, my eyes had adjusted to the lack of light. Nobody stirred within the shadows, but it was easier for me to make out the balled up figures in their cells. Only able to see three cells down on either side of me and the four or five cells on the opposite wall, I realized just how many women were kept here.

  Hours passed as I wondered why so many women were needed. I assumed most had chosen fuck instead of die, but if they could be reused for new films, what was the purpose of abducting more? We were like a small prison of hopeless souls, ones who hadn't done anything wrong to deserve being here - we'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. How many films were made on a daily basis? Where were the films viewed and what was their purpose?

  Money, I assumed, but how? It wasn't like Ethan could distribute to a wide audience. I was sure anybody would question how real the films seemed. Plus, if any of these women had been reported missing, I was positive seeing them being used as prey for rapists and murderers would clue in law enforcement to our existence.

  I wasn't an expert on crime or human trafficking. Perhaps, over time, all of us are forgotten. The thought made me wonder what my parents were going through at that moment. I knew them well enough to know they'd probably already gone to the police.

  My mother was the type that even twenty-four hours without hearing from me was too much. She'd always been paranoid, but now I was starting to understand why. The world was a cruel place full of monsters, and if you weren't constantly on guard, eventually one would sneak up from behind to drag you into the shadows. It was a bleak way to live your life, but if I'd listened to all the warnings she'd given me, mayb
e I wouldn't be here now using a steel cot as a painkiller.

  The silence was welcome, I couldn't complain about that. After everything that occurred since arriving here, I hadn't had much time to myself to think.

  Everything falls down on you in the silence, all the crushing fears, the loss of happiness, the bleak understandings that your life has changed so significantly that nothing will ever be the same again. I was one person that night on the sidewalk in Boston, and now I was someone else entirely, a girl whose skin was stolen and replaced with plastic, my smile wiped away by a crappy eraser so that the former smile showed through even when drawn over with a frown.

  I was a killer now. No longer the carefree girl who cringed at the sight of spiders, I was now one of those few who knew how it felt to take a life. It was the strangest of feelings. Once, there was a man. His heart beat and his lungs pulled in air. He felt pain and he felt pleasure. And now he did none of those things because of me.

  I'd never wanted to be that person, the person who could look a man in the eye and remove the soul that stared out from behind it.

  While drowning beneath the surface of what I'd once envisioned my life would be, voices were a low murmur in the distance, the electronic key pad beeping out its tune before the pneumonic hiss of the door echoed through the winding halls. My head spun in the direction of the sound, my arms tightening over my legs where they were pressed to my chest.

  The voices grew louder once the door popped open, one of which I recognized instantly.

  "Is there any fucking light in this place? I'd like to actually see my selections. Why fuck an average looking woman when you can find something much prettier to be with?"

  Lights flared on in the hallway and cells, the white beams blinding my eyes. Reaching up, I tried to block out the glare while still keeping an eye on whoever was coming around that corner. I knew Ethan was with the man, his laughter and voice hadn't stopped echoing in my mind since I first met him. It didn't matter where I was or what I was doing, I would recognize the sound of him.

  Despite not being able to see where they were standing, I could guess fairly accurately where they were by the sound of their voices. The man spoke more than Ethan, his voice deep and gravely, harsher somehow than the smooth cadence of Ethan's tone. I hated him instantly, my stomach churning over each syllable he spit out. To hear him speak was to feel slime rubbed against your most intimate places. My skin was crawling, bile coating my tongue, by the time they turned the second corner.

  "Where's the girl from the film you just showed me? I wouldn't mind having a taste of her. Although I still doubt the film will be successful, I must admit seeing a woman lose control like that left me hungry for a piece. Is she just as feisty without the weapon?"

  Ethan hesitated to answer. "She's down in medical. The male lead had an opportunity to hurt her pretty badly before she fought back. She won't be appropriate for your tastes. Not tonight, at least."

  He'd lied.

  For me.

  I couldn't understand why.

  By now, the voices had woken up some of the other girls. They merely lifted their heads, blinked against the light and then shrunk down over themselves again, prey doing their best to camouflage themselves against the predators. I turned my head to look at Melanie, but found she was still sleeping deeply, rolled up and warm in the blanket I'd given her.

  "That one should do, the little blond thing that hasn't even woken up. Surprises are always fun, wouldn't you agree?" His lascivious laughter caused me to dry heave.

  "I'm sure she'll be thankful for the sentiment," Ethan answered dryly.

  A lock slid out of place, hard and cold. The metallic sound was appropriate in this freezing place. The swinging door dragged a scream from the hinges, the creak sending shivers chasing up my spine. The mood was so ominous it suffocated me, froze me in place like I was the blond little thing unaware of a pervert's surprise.

  "I'll just walk around the corner and give you some privacy. When you're done, shut the door on your way out and call for me."

  A piercing scream tore through the halls next, cutting the silence as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. It was so shocking it became a living thing inside of me, a force so severe the pain I felt was everywhere. Not only that, but her scream disguised another sound I should have feared, the rhythmic fall of expensive shoes against concrete.

  Ethan was in my line of sight before the woman's scream had time to die off. Calm, collected, without concern or any noticeable reaction to the sound still cutting through me like I was warm butter, Ethan approached on lazy steps. His eyes caught mine immediately, his expression blank and unreadable. He was simply here, but not affected by what here was to us.

  Stopping when he stood just outside my cell, he leaned against the other side, not caring that he had a frightened woman cowering on her cot at his back. I wasn't planning on talking to him so I guessed it was a wasted effort on his part to press a finger to his lips to tell me to be quiet.

  The slimy voice joined the woman's cries, saying all the terrible things men will say to frightened, helpless women. I wanted to vomit, but found myself staring at the devil himself.

  No. Not the devil.

  The Director.

  He didn't create Hell, he only timed it perfectly, ensuring that each moment of heartfelt terror was as meaningful and painful as it should be.

  My life was simply a movie when he was around, a film I didn't like watching, a collection of moving images that meant little to the man after he'd had his say in how one moment would transition into another. My current soundtrack was that of violence against a woman who had done nothing wrong but attempt to sleep in the cold cage she'd been assigned, only to wake up to abuse that was far colder than the air conditioning could ever make this place.

  Glaring at the man standing across from me, I ignored the way his eyes slowly traced down my body and back up again to my eyes. A question wrinkled his brow as that intelligent gaze slid left to where Melanie lay sleeping wrapped in the blanket Ethan had given me. When his eyebrow arched and that gaze slid back to where I sat, I understood what he'd noticed.

  He didn't have to talk for me to know what he was thinking. We could speak through facial expressions alone.

  Why give up the advantage? he didn't say.

  Having a heart is my advantage, I didn't answer back.

  Ethan shrugged my response away, unconcerned that I chose to freeze in my cage rather than cling tightly to the only comfort he'd given me.

  A frenzied rhythm of skin slapping skin and hips slamming against steel overlaid our unspoken conversation, the occasional grunt sounding from the throat of a pig. Although he hadn't moved so much as a finger to stop it, Ethan didn't appear impressed either. He simply stood staring at me, bored and leisurely as he leaned against the cell at his back.

  The heat of anger colored my skin. Sweeping down from my cheeks, it spread over my shoulders and into my arms and fingers, down further past my breasts and my stomach into my legs and down to the tips of my toes. So fiery was that anger, I could barely contain it, tears seeping from my eyes as that poor woman continued suffering the man's abuse, her cries now lost to his savagery, his lust. Unable to bear the weight of it, I volleyed that anger toward the man staring back at me, only for him to deflect it with his superiority.

  The woman meant nothing. I meant nothing. Not in his kingdom, his magical world of fantasy and film.

  The soundtrack stopped, delivering us back to insufferable silence, our stare down disrupted by the click of a cell door closing and the grinding slide of a lock.

  "Ethan," the man called, spreading his slime against me again just for having heard his voice.

  And as quiet as he'd entered my hall, Ethan walked away from it without so much as another unspoken word. I listened to his departing steps, counted the beat of them until the lights turned off and I was returned to darkness. I said goodbye as the code was punched into the keypad, the pneumatic hiss a snake slithering down the h
all before the door closed again.

  EMMA

  Does it make me an awful person to admit that I didn't hate Ethan as much as I should? Despite what it made me to realize my feelings, or lack thereof, they were still there, or more accurately absent, the weight of them becoming more crushing with each passing day I spent in the cages and was rotated through a routine common for the women kept here in this prison.

  It had been silly to think I'd found some connection with Ethan Cole. Over the first few days, he'd paid me special attention. He'd allowed me to read him, to know his thoughts, to take an educated guess about how he felt for me while he sculpted me into a monster who would kill as easily as give up. But as the days wore on and I neither saw him nor heard from him, I understood the stark truth that I'd underestimated Ethan - or overestimated him I guess I should say. I'd given him a heart that wasn't actually there, a warmth that didn't deserve even the passing notion that it could exist inside him.

  Where he had once filled my hours, I was now drowning in routine. Each morning we were woken by the guards, told to use our buckets if we had to pee, and then marched off toward the showers where we took our bag of essentials, scrubbed our bodies and dried off. We were led to a cafeteria after, sat in front of trays filled with unpalatable food, given fifteen minutes to manage the task of forcing our throats to swallow it and begging our stomachs to keep it down. We couldn't be blamed for the sickness; after one day of the routine, we knew well where we were headed next.

  Melanie had failed in her explanation of the theater, her words leaving out the true depth of horror that faced us each time we were led down the long hall leading to its intricately carved double doors.

  Much like one would expect of a wonderland of film, the halls were painted a deep crimson red, the color contrasting sharply against white floorboards and vaulted ceilings. Chair rails ran the center, above which hung the images that began the nightmare you faced while being marched into a theater that was a comfortable viewing of Hell itself.