by Simone Pond
When Christy had first arrived in Los Angeles, she busted her way into Bob’s office looking for work. Before the Repatterning, she had been fearless. But living under the Santa Monica Pier, selling her body to strangers, had whittled her down. “What the hell do you need me for? Like you said, I’m damaged goods.”
Bob’s black eyes glinted like they did whenever he had a compromising proposition. He leaned forward and touched Christy’s cheek, then grabbed her chin. “Everyone loves a good rags to riches to rags story. I’ve got a plan, Christy baby.” He sat back in his seat and Breese handed him a handkerchief to wipe off his hand.
Christy didn’t want to be his baby; she didn’t want to be his sweetheart, or his darling. She wanted to survive. She wanted shelter. And regular meals. Bob might be her best hope. “Since I’m locked in your car, I’d say you have a captive audience. Just the way you like them. So what’s your plan?”
“I’ve got a secret club reserved only for the top elite. Every month I put on a show, a really good show. You’re my new talent.”
A twinge of disgust burned in her throat. “What kind of show?”
“Trust me, baby, it’s bushel loads better than the shows you’re putting on down at the beach.”
Christy resented everything about Bob, but he was right. He was always right. Anything would be better than another sleepless night in the sand among the heathens.
“Fine, you got me.”
“I’ve always had you, sweetheart.”
Rage ignited in her gut and she could no longer remain calm. “Then why have you let me live like an animal for the last five months?” she yelled.
“Because you needed a story. Like I said, people love a good comeback. And baby, you’re coming back. You’re coming back hard.”
Feeling defeated, she reached for his cigarette and took a few long drags. The nicotine soaked into her bloodstream and she eased back against the leather seat. “So what do I have to do?”
“It’s simple,” he said. “Everything.”
Breese took the cigarette from Christy’s fingers. A sharp prick pierced her thigh. She looked down at a syringe, with Breese’s fingers curled around its plunger, and a smirk painted on his plastic face.
###
Christy awoke in a dark room with her arms and ankles shackled to some sort of armchair.
“Bob!” she yelled into the darkness.
The room remained silent, but she sensed she wasn’t alone. A cold chill crept up the back of her neck. Bob was up to something despicable. She had no idea why he enjoyed the game of humiliation, but he was a pro at it. Chained to the chair, she wondered what kind of “show” Bob intended her to perform. Someone turned on a spotlight, blinding Christy. She closed her baby blues and begged Bob to please shut off the damn light.
His voice came through the speakers. “Gentlemen, thank you for your most welcome attendance this evening. Tonight we have a very special guest. Former Hollywood celebrity and award-winning actress, I present to you the once remarkable Christy Cullens!”
That was the worst introduction Christy had ever received. The once remarkable? That didn’t seem like much of a sales pitch. What was Bob trying to do?
“Bob!” she yelled again, opening her eyes to get a better idea of her predicament.
Chained to a golden throne, she wore a lavender kimono and matching stilettos. Someone had scrubbed the beach grime out of her cracks and crevices, lathered her in a silvery sheen, and polished all ten of her nails cherry red.
Bob walked across the room to the chair, his smile beamed like it did whenever he was working out a movie deal. He stood at Christy’s side and patted her shoulder. She tried to jerk away, but that only made him press down harder. He looked up at the balcony, where a row of twelve men stared down into the pit that showcased Christy in her golden throne. Of all the messed up shit she had stepped into, this was the most obscure.
“You may remember the Academy Award-winning actress from blockbuster hits such as, Orchid by the Valley, Snow Covered Pines, and her ever popular Leave of Absence. Her story is similar to many Hollywood stars: Christy came from a nothing town, crawled into the city of angels on her knees, begging to become somebody, and stayed on her knees until she rose to the top, only to fall.”
Christy interrupted Bob’s horrible speech. “What’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered.
Bob lightly slapped her cheek and continued addressing the men. “After the industry faded away, so did Hollywood’s finest. Some moved back to their nothing towns, or tried to make a living like regular people, but some––as in Miss Cullen’s case––took to living on the streets and making money the oldest way in the book. To think, the sheer indecency of it all! Being forced to sleep with strangers just to keep from starving to death.”
As much as Christy didn’t want to cry, she couldn’t help herself. The shame of every secret she had been shoving down into the darkest place had resurfaced––her father’s abuse, soliciting the men from her hometown, giving in to Bob, and anyone else he named.
Bob smiled like a circus ringleader selling his biggest act. “Good sirs, I found this little darling down at the beach, drifting like a dust in the cool ocean breeze. I scooped her up and took her under my gentle wing. She’s been scrubbed and polished. I wouldn’t say she’s as good as new, but I am offering you a commodity that most men are probably still dreaming about when they go to sleep at night. Gentlemen, I give you, Miss Christy Cullens. Now you’ll have a chance to transform America’s sweetheart back into a spectacular star.”
Christy thought that didn’t sound too bad. It’d be like a makeover.
“But, buying out her contract comes at a steep price,” he added.
Of course it did. Bob would suck every last bit of juice from his hottest commodity.
“Unlike the other women you’ve bid on, Miss Cullens is at the peak of the pricing spectrum. Since money has lost its value, I’m most interested in tangible assets, such as a private island, or somewhere safe to stay during the final phases of the Repatterning.”
Christy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. These men had islands to barter? She wondered why anyone in their right mind would be interested in offering a dime––let alone a private island––for her company. But it turned out the men were interested, and a bidding war began.
Bob leaned down. “See, Christy baby, you still got it,” he whispered.
She tried to lift her hand to slap his face, but the chain rattled, keeping her strapped into the display throne.
The first man shouted, “Cave Cay, Bahamas. Comes complete with a fully remodeled manor.”
“Seychelles, and I’ll toss in a complete staff,” another one yelled.
A stocky man hung over the balcony shouting, “Maldives. Fully working staff. Gulfstream with a pilot.”
Christy watched as they shouted multi-million dollar offers at Bob, like they were bidding for a Van Gogh. It was obvious that the Repatterning had given the elites all the power. She laughed at the absurdity of it all, until Bob yanked on one of her chains.
“Keep it together. This is good for both of us,” he said into her ear.
They would benefit from the bidding war over the contract on her life, but Bob would walk away a free man and she’d still be someone’s property.
“You know what, asshole? I don’t want to be a prisoner for life. I’d rather live under the pier with the rotting fish and heathens, waiting for the world to end,” she yelled, kicking and squirming in the chair.
When the men heard her protest, their bidding became more intense and heated.
Bob kissed her shimmering cheek. “Nice work, baby.”
In the end, Bob decided on an island in the Bahamas. The location was close enough to the States if he needed to make a quick trip back, but far enough away from the final phases of the Repatterning.
“Thank you, Mr. Ahmanson, for the winning bid. I’ll be up in a minute to finalize the paperwork.”
Christy wondered what the paperwork for the sale of her life entailed. Was there a thirty-day escrow period, or would Mr. Ahmanson simply walk away with his merchandise that day? The spotlight shut off and Bob left her alone in the dark.
After an hour of waiting, a light came on and the door opened. A tall handsome man entered and walked over to Christy. Though the entire situation was depraved, she was relieved that her new owner didn’t look like a fiend or a pervert. He appeared to be a handsome, well-kept gentleman. Unlike Bob Sanders.
Mr. Ahmanson smiled kindly and leaned down to remove the cuffs. “Hello.”
He seemed like a good and helpful man. Peacefulness rested through her body and the fragments of her dignity fastened back together. “Hi,” she whispered.
“My name is Tom.” He helped her out of the chair.
She tried to hold herself together, but a wave of emotions came barreling out like a boulder crashing down the side of a mountain. “I’m sorry,” she cried.
Tom rubbed her back until she was all cried out. “We can go now.” He took her hand and led her to the exit. Christy’s legs wobbled, and Tom bent to remove the ridiculous stilettos. She leaned against his shoulder as they walked down a narrow hallway. At the backdoor, a team of security guards escorted them to a black car. She didn’t want to get inside, but she didn’t have a choice––he owned her now. Pulling the lavender kimono tightly around her body, she sat in the backseat and they drove across the parking lot to Tom’s jet.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Away from here,” he said.
Inside the jet, Tom took Christy to a bedroom in the back. Seeming to be in a hurry to seal their contract, her hope of him being a gentleman was crushed.
“There’s a shower and a drawer full of clothes. Take your time, we have a long flight.”
Christy could breathe again. Tom was different than any man she had even known. Before he shut the door, she stopped him. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“All humans deserve to be treated with respect, Miss Cullens.”
“I used to be much more respectable,” she said.
“You think fame brought you respect?”
She thought for a moment. Maybe she had confused idolatry for respect? “I don’t know any more.” She smiled and shut the door before the tears started flowing again.
In the shower, she rinsed off whatever sheen had been applied to her body and washed her hair, taking her time and letting every drop of water cleanse her all the way to her inner core. Something magical had happened and utopia was on the horizon.
Inside the room, a tray of warm food had been placed on the nightstand. The scent of savory roast beef and buttery mashed potatoes filled the air. She gorged down every morsel until her stomach ached. Afterward, she put on a rose petal pink blouse, black slacks and matching pumps, then pulled her hair back into a bun. Satisfied with her appearance, she entered the main cabin and sat across from Tom.
“Feel better?” He held out a glass of sparkling champagne.
“You don’t even know. Beyond words.” She took the glass and tried to sip the champagne, but it was so good, she gulped it back.
Tom laughed and poured more. She relaxed a bit, resting into the soft leather chair. The sky was pitch black, except for the blinking red lights on the wings.
“Where are we going? To your castle?” she joked.
“Something like that.” Sipping Scotch from his tumbler, he removed a gold cigarette case from his suit pocket and offered her one.
She reached for a cigarette and let him light it. Just like in the movies. “I don’t understand why you’re treating me so well. You can do whatever you want. You own me.”
“I am doing whatever I want.” He smiled, lighting his own cigarette. For a moment Christy felt like she was back in her old life, the one where she was still a superstar, jetting all over the world for shoots and appearances.
“I thought because you were with those disgusting men that you’d be disgusting too.”
“I only go to those things to save women like you.”
The word “save” resonated in her heart. She’d been waiting to be saved by someone since she was a little girl, hiding under the covers and squeezing away the truth. She craved a guardian angel. Her mother. A neighbor. Anybody. But nobody ever came to her room, except her father.
“What do you mean, women like me?”
“Damaged goods.”
She started to say something in defense––that she had been the most sought after movie star in Hollywood––but she remained quiet, listening to the hum of the engine. What was there to defend? None of her accomplishments could camouflage the truth: she was damaged down to the bones.
“I didn’t stand a chance. Not in the house I grew up in,” she said.
“That’s over now. That life. Your past. I’m giving you a chance to start over.”
“Why?”
“Because members of my family have committed some unforgivable acts that can never be undone. I’ve ex-communicated myself from everyone and I’m trying to make up for what they’ve done.”
“What have they done?”
“Many things for many decades. But backing the Repatterning was the lowest of lows. They funded a madman who promised them a new society and everlasting life. The fountain of youth.”
Christy wasn’t sure how the Repatterning would deliver on those promises. It seemed to be destroying everything in its path.
“I don’t get the whole Repatterning thing,” she said.
“They’re cleaning house and starting over with a new society.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. You’ll be safe with me. We’re going somewhere off the grid.”
The weight of everything was too heavy. Christy yawned, putting out her cigarette. “Would you mind if I went to sleep for a little while? It’s been a long day.”
Tom followed her to the back room. “I’ll wake you when we’re about to land.”
“Oh, you’re not joining me?”
He kissed her cheek and shut the door. She dropped onto the bed and passed out. It was the first time she had slept in a bed in months.
###
The plane landed somewhere in Greece. Still groggy, Christy vaguely remembered boarding the boat heading to Tom’s private island in the Ionian Sea. After a few sips of hot coffee, she sparked back to life. Standing on the upper deck, she let the warm humid air wrap around her body. The moment seemed surreal, as if she had died and woke up in paradise. The boat moved through the turquoise waters, making its way toward the large island of plush greenery and white sand beaches.
“Welcome to Ion.” Tom put his arm around shoulder and hugged her close.
“It’s heavenly,” she whispered, resting her head on his chest. Just like in the movies.
At the dock, a few women waited for their arrival. Christy found it a bit odd that each one wore a long white gown with a golden sash tied under their bosom. They reminded her of Greek goddesses. When the boat docked, the women rushed to Tom and Christy, fluttering around them like butterflies. The group walked down the cobblestone path to the tremendous white castle in the distance. One of the women stayed close to Tom, fanning him and occasionally dabbing the sweat from his brow. Christy found their overzealous attentiveness to be slightly annoying.
Tom stopped when they arrived at the mansion. He smiled at each woman, making deliberate eye contact. He paused at Christy and raised his eyebrows.
“Ladies, we have a new member of our staff. Her named used to be Christy Cullens, but on the island she will be known as Theia, goddess of light. Please prepare her for introductions and get her settled into her chambers.”
Goddess of light? She thought that was strange, but looking at the beautiful mansion, the coifed lawns and surrounding gardens, it didn’t matter that she had a new name. After all, she was starting fresh. If that’s how things were done o
n the Greek Isles, so be it. The ladies bowed down to Tom and he left them to their work.
“I’m Phoebe,” the youngest of the women spoke first. Her blond tendrils framed her heart-shaped face. “This is Bia.” She motioned to a woman who looked to be middle-aged. She had white streaks along the sides of her jet-black hair, giving her a fierce appearance, as her name suggested. “And this is Hygea. She’ll be responsible for getting you prepared.” Hygea had her red hair pulled back from her pristine face, showing off her glittering green eyes.
“I’m Christy. Well, I guess I’m Theia now.”
“Come along, Theia, I’ll show you to the baths and get you situated.” Hygea took Christy’s hand and guided her to the back of the estate.
Christy froze as they came upon a garden, which could have been easily been Eden. Hundreds of willow trees created pale green canopies over glistening ponds, and hundreds of overflowing rose bushes blossomed throughout the sacred place. The ponds sparkled like they were full of diamonds. Jasmine grew along the surrounding walls and the sweet smell soaked into her pores. In the middle of the garden, sat a long pool filled with white liquid.
“Milk and honey.” Hygea helped Christy remove her clothes.
Christy sauntered down the path to the pool of milk and honey. She stopped and turned around. “Am I dreaming?” she asked Hygea.
“Nothing here is a dream.” Her violet eyes twinkled.
“But what happens next?”
“There is no next. There is only now . . .”
Christy stepped into the pool, letting the warm milk coat her ankles and calves. As she went deeper under, her regrets and shame vanished like stardust.
- The End -
About Simone
Simone Pond is an award-winning author of dystopian fiction. Her current series includes The City Center, The New Agenda, The Mainframe, and The Torrent. She also has a short story series called Voices of the Apocalypse.