by V. F. Mason
He is in this position because of me; I’m sure of it. Lachlan probably wants to teach me a lesson, and he never liked Max anyway. “I’ll do whatever you want, but please let him go.” I finally crack, hating everything about this surrender, but it’s the only way to save an innocent man from this.
He leans forward, resting his hands on the arms of the chair with his lips inches away from mine, his smells of tobacco and alcohol enveloping me, as he murmurs, “Valencia, you don’t get to call the shots here.” Before I can add anything, he presses a finger to my lips, and I wince in disgust. “I’m nothing but fair, believe it or not. So I have a proposition for you.” Our eyes clash as he trails my lips with his thumb. I’m sure he can see my chest rising and falling as my heart beats wildly, awaiting his response. “Dance for me. A perfect dance of act three. If you will dance for one hour straight with no stopping, Max won’t suffer. That’s one single rule. But if you break it, he does. How does that sound?”
One hour? How will I be able to perform in such a state and for one hour? It’s almost suicide for a ballerina to hold that long on her legs, and it can lead to all sorts of injuries.
Will I be able to?
“To convince you even more, how about raising the stakes? If you win, you are free. If you lose, you are forever enchained in this castle.”
He probably knew about my plan with Levi, which seems stupid and hopeless now. He is a mastermind who cannot be tricked.
But he is also a man who respects a fair fight; that much I can tell. So if I follow the rules, he will grant me my wishes.
I cannot fail myself or Max.
Our lives depend on it.
“Okay,” I reply.
Satisfaction crosses his face as he steps back, and orders, “Let’s go to the dance room. Show me your swan.”
All the way there, I pray and pray to God to help me withstand this challenge.
Lachlan
A French abbot and a major leader of the Benedictine monasticism Saint Bernard of Clairvaux once wrote, "L'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés ou désirs" which in English translates to “Hell is full of good wishes or desires.”
Whatever we do in life, most of the time is the right thing or good intention. But our every action has a consequence.
Valencia so easily sacrificed herself for Max, not that I expected anything else from her, although an odd feeling of raging fury swirls through me at the idea of her having any affection for another man, even if it means nothing.
She shouldn’t have any other male in her mind but me. She is mine. Belongs to me, as I earned her fair and square.
Her good wishes and desires brought her to the gates of hell, and she is about to sink into it, coming to the place that will forever change her and shape her into a person she won’t recognize.
All because she put someone else above herself.
Hell is a fickle thing.
Sometimes people create it for us, and we learn to live there, holding on to the life that brings nothing but pain.
Sometimes people create it for themselves, choosing someone else’s happiness above theirs. It’s not always about love though, as everyone claims. Sometimes it’s about selfish desire to feel good.
We rarely place the blame where it belongs.
Valencia doesn’t know, but she failed my test; had she chosen differently, I might have considered granting her freedom. Had she followed with her plan to access Levi’s phone and call the police, she’d have proved to me that she is not an angel.
But once again, she went to old habits and risked her legs.
More lines for my notes to her appear in my head. Too bad I no longer send her any, as this would have been fitting.
Once upon a time, there was an angel who sacrificed herself out of guilt.
Her wings clipped, her spirit broken.
She had no one but herself to blame.
As the monster gave her chances she wasn’t willing to take.
Spinning her around to me as she struggles in my hold, I grab the rope from the fireplace I purposely put there in advance and wrap it tightly around her middle. It’s long enough to let her dance freely to any distance, but tight enough that with my pull she will move in the direction I need.
“I’m not your puppet,” she says, stubbornness crossing her face, and my laughter echoes in the otherwise silent space.
“Are you sure about that?” There is just so far you can push a person before he or she will explode, but Valencia doesn’t.
She accepts it, barely giving a passing look at the beautifully designed space before standing right in the middle of it.
Let the show begin.
Valencia
My eyes snap open. I look straight ahead and take a deep breath, then step into a pose. I’m illuminated by the moonlight that shines brightly into the room from the glass-like ceiling above me. The silent room is filled with a mysterious atmosphere, creating an almost-perfect setting for a romantic evening.
The familiar first notes of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake echo through the space, and I assume the position, rising on my toes and swaying from side to side while slowly moving to the corner and then hopping on my toes again, owning the stage as if nothing matters, blocking the outside world away.
To each dramatic note, I perform with my hands and facial expressions, giving away all the hopelessness of the swan who has been captured by the dark lord and can’t be reunited with her love.
The pain and heartache fuel her desire to fight against him, so she feeds on them, even if they threaten to destroy her.
I swirl and swirl, rising up and down, up and down, and then a cry of pain slips past my lips as my feet land on the glass. I halt my movements, barely breathing from the glass digging into my skin.
I glance down to see my white pointe shoes slowly coating in blood from all the scattered glass covering the floor. If one is careful enough to avoid it, he is a master.
My feet throb agonizingly and I can barely stand on them. My rasping breaths help me concentrate on something other than the hurt.
The sound of the lighter flicking fills the space as he lights his cigarette, takes a deep breath, and exhales it in my direction while resting more comfortably on the chair right in front of me. “Ah, Valencia.” He says as a sinister smile spreads across his face. “You know the rules. Never stop.” His deep yet dangerous voice raises goose bumps on my skin, reminding me once again that the monster never sleeps.
He just feeds on my misery.
He tugs on the rope wrapped tightly around my waist and I stumble forward. I can’t help the groan of pain when he directs me onto the big pile of glass. The air freezes in my lungs while I pray for the hurt to pass so I can continue.
But I can’t.
Instead, fear unlike anything before spreads through me. Injuries like this may ruin a dancer’s career forever, and if I don’t have dancing, I won’t have anything in this life.
But he knows that.
Somehow it’s easier to pretend and think only about ballet, instead of Max’s life that depends on my performance. For a second, I can block it away to get the clarity that is almost impossible as fear chokes me at the prospect of his death.
We have been friends since childhood. Our dads were friends. Each moment with him flashes before me, bringing only more desperation.
Another tug. This time I can’t keep up. I land on my knees, biting my lip hard so I won’t make a sound as the bare skin on my palms and knees touch the glass.
“Get up,” he orders, but I don’t.
He can dish any punishment he wants. God knows the cuts and throbbing skin are an indication of that, but I won’t let him taint the one thing in my life that I love most.
He has already taken everything else; he doesn’t get to have ballet too.
He exhales heavily at my disobedience and rises, straightening his perfectly ironed three-piece suit, and walks to me.
With each step he takes, my heartbeat speeds up faster and f
aster. He places the metal head of his cane under my chin and lifts it up until I meet his stare head on. I hate everything about this man.
Or at least I hope it’s hate.
“So that’s your choice?” he asks as his lazy gaze roams over me, but I say nothing.
I won’t give him the last part of me that matters.
Even if it seals my death tonight.
I quickly come to a decision and speak. “Kill me instead of Max. It’s about me anyway.” I expect him to eagerly take it, but instead, rage fills him.
“Sacrifices are for fools, darling.” He taps the cane against the glass. “Get up and dance, or Max is dead.”
I hiss in pain but get up and try to rise on my toes but fail. I would have kissed the floor if his strong arms hadn’t held me steady. “I will dance. Let go of me.” If a life depends on me, I must.
I didn’t want to give up ballet, but it seems it’s better never to dance again than to have Max’s death on my conscience.
He shakes his head. “You failed, Valencia. The terms were to never stop.” He takes out his phone and presses Dial as fear spirals through me. I grab his hand, but he issues the order. “Kill him. Now.” Through the phone, I hear Max’s scream that lasts and lasts, and then Lachlan shifts my chin to the other TV that slides open from another wall, where I see Max stabbed in the chest, but not before the person removes his genitals all while he is conscious for the torture.
His face freezes with the scream still etched in his expression, and he is dead.
Dead.
Because Lachlan decided to play a game with me and I failed. With clarity, though, I understand that Max’s destiny was decided long before now.
Lachlan is just that kind of monster.
I open my mouth wide and scream my heart out just like the wounded swan.
Chapter Fifteen
Lachlan, 8 years old
Tugging on my ironed shirt, I glanced over my shoulder one last time as Aunt Jessie waves at me from the car. She dropped me at Pastor’s mansion, which is located almost at the far end of the city, and is surrounded by iron gates that have security men around them.
She said Pastor prefers his privacy and people usually take a lot of his time, and this way he can concentrate better on educating the boys.
“It’s all for the goodness of his people,” she explained.
He chose me, Logan, and three other kids and told our guardians to bring us to him the next day. All the moms along with Aunt Jessie almost jumped with happiness, and she whispered to me that now I will have a chance to do greater things for the community.
And although Pastor scared me, I understood that someone above listened to me, because the minute he selected me, Uncle changed.
He didn’t snarl at me, didn’t come close, and he didn’t whisper in my ear on Sunday that I should wait for him. And although I shook in my bed, expecting his visits, he never showed up.
Maybe being one of the selected boys by Pastor is in fact a blessing after all.
A tall man, wearing what seems like a uniform that reminds me of those historical TV shows Mom used to watch, opens the door and smiles at me, although it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hello, Lachlan. Come on in. Everyone else is already here.” I nod and follow him while seeing huge sculptures inside the house, shiny chandeliers, and red carpets that must cost a lot. I see stairs going up, while the man points at a huge door.
I step inside and almost gasp. It’s a huge dining room with several big windows, but they are covered by curtains, so the chandeliers shine brightly.
The dishes almost sparkle in the light with various food bowls scattered on the brown, wooden table, and the smells make my stomach grumble. “Lachlan,” the pastor addresses me, and I come closer as he pats the table on his right. “Come sit here, beside Logan.” I quickly do that, and my eyes almost bulge from their sockets from the well-done steaks, french fries, desserts, and lots of other dishes that people here can only dream of.
Mostly the houses have only rice and buckwheat with vegetables from the gardens. Meat is distributed once a month, and it counted on the number of people living in the house. I share a grin with Logan, as he shows me a thumbs-up, clearly wanting to grab the food as much as I do.
We take a moment to say grace and then Pastor stands up, sweeping his gaze over us. “Now that we are all here, let’s start eating. You are a select few who have great potential. You will have an education, expensive clothes, whatever you want. And so will your families.” I’m confused at this, because Aunt said the life here is about letting go of all those things in order to find God within you.
Shouldn’t we follow the same rules?
“I will require only one thing in return,” he adds, and everyone eagerly nods.
Everyone but me, because although I can see his expression turning blank, something hides behind his eyes.
I’ve seen this evil in Uncle whenever he claimed I was a sinner.
With my heart beating loudly in my ears, I dread his reply, and when it comes, I almost exhale in relief.
“You will live here for one week of the month. I will have special guests over. They will teach you things.”
That’s not so bad, he probably needs people from outside, because not everyone is smart enough here.
Except…
And then I ask a question before I can stop myself. “Where are the other kids that were selected before us?” If he chooses someone by the age of eight, surely they must be around?
Pastor’s brow rises and something crosses his face, but it’s quickly gone and he replaces it with a smile. Cold, scary smile. “Once they turn thirteen, they live among everyone else. They just have a chance to study at college outside once they are eighteen.” And then he leans forward, so only I can hear him. “Do not speak without my permission anymore, Lachlan. Disobedience has consequences.”
The doorbell rings and several male voices can be heard. “Our guests are here. Now each one of them will select one of you. You will go to your study room, and they will show you things.” Then he goes to the hall to greet the seven men who came in, each one of them wearing a suit and a golden watch that practically screams money.
He didn’t mention all this to my aunt when she got the document that stated what we would do.
I shrug it off, and we proceed to eat while the men sit opposite us. I move around on my chair as one of them, the older man with black hair, stares at me in a way that doesn’t feel right.
I want to go home now and forget about this whole selection thing, when Pastor asks, “Gentlemen, have you made your pick?” Each one of them has his attention on a different kid and they nod. “Great. We shall start this, then.” They get up, and the dark-haired man motions for me, and I go as he puts his hand on my shoulder. I want to push it away but don’t. There is no need to be rude without any reason.
We go upstairs, as he asks, “Lachlan, right?” He pats my head. “I will show you heaven on earth.”
What? What does this have to do with studies?
But I don’t have to wait for long as we step inside the spacious room that has a big bed with the headboard nailed to the wall, several leather belts hanging from the wall, and a bench. Along with some tubes and packets that I don’t recognize. I can see one more door, which probably leads to a bathroom. If it’s a study room, shouldn’t there be a desk?
Not this.
And then I raise my eyes to him and everything inside me freezes. I know that look.
No!
I dart to the door, but he grabs me hard by my neck and laughs, sending tremors through me. “Lachlan, baby. The fun hasn’t even started.” I try to get free, but it’s useless. He tears my clothes away while sliding his hand over my chest. “Do you want to run without me showing you what I promised?”
I fight and fight, but it doesn’t help. Several hours pass with him doing bad things to me, while I take it all and then cry in the shower because everything hurts. I rest my face a
gainst the hot tile.
Tears mix with water while I wonder why everyone dreams about joining heaven if it’s like this?
New York, New York
January 2018
Lachlan
She sits still on the floor, breathing heavily as her raw throat murmurs something, but it comes out like a babbled mess.
Her hands are bleeding from how strongly she dug her nails into her sensitive palms while she watched Mina kill Max. With that one last stab, her eyes lost all hope and the strength she harbored during her dance. She looks into space, her mouth half open, and all I can do is watch her as displeasure hits me unexpectedly.
Outside forces have hurt her, and I don’t like seeing her like this.
Defeated, because another man—Max, no less—is dead.
Although it’s fascinating to watch how deep compassion can go, this image starts to bore even me.
Throwing my jacket on the chair, I roll up my sleeves as I go to her, and that finally catches her attention as she focuses her gaze on me. A snarl appears on her face, as she hisses, “You are a monster.”
“I am. Never hid that.” She tries to scoot back from me, but I grab her by the shoulders, drag her up, and steady her as her knees weaken. “Enough of this ‘great depression.’ I want to show you something else.” My words have created a banshee in my arms as she hits me repeatedly, although I can barely feel it. That’s how weak the blows are. She screams and screams with her raspy voice. “Don’t you dare touch anyone else from my family or friends. Don’t you dare.”
My brave one, still giving orders even though she is in no position to do so. “Believe it or not, Valencia, I’m trying to give you a cure from your… well, this.” I don’t really know how to properly describe her reaction, as I find it completely useless.
Dead people don’t need our tears. They can’t help them anyway. A simple truth that everyone should accept.