Arson’s Captive

by Mason , V. F.

  I freeze, remembering so much pain coming from my back as she hit me repeatedly for shaming her in front of her friends who hadn’t even seen it.

  But Parker lives for what people say, so I should never tarnish her reputation—at least that’s what she constantly repeats to me.

  Since she is twirling right now in front of the mirror, adjusting her short yellow dress on her hips and leaning forward, picking up a powder brush, I decide to be brave enough to ask her, “Can I have bread instead?” The chocolate usually makes me so sick I want to vomit, and it never holds me for long.

  Her brush pauses midway to her cheek, and I meet her slightly annoyed reflection in the mirror, which makes me curl in a ball inwardly, awaiting her reply with dread.

  I thought she was in a good mood?

  But with Parker, one might never know when she’s in a good mood. In all my life, I’ve only seen her happy twice. When she got an expensive bag as a gift and when one of her boyfriends left her a hundred-dollar bill.

  I’m not sure how much it is, but she kept on bouncing on the bed chanting how great it was. Not that it changed anything for me; despite her earning money, she brought food to the room only five days later.

  A single chocolate bar.

  She sighs heavily, dipping her brush in powder before furiously applying another layer, digging it so hard into her skin. She already has so much of it, and combined with the heavy red lipstick, she looks like a scary clown.

  Not that I tell her that, because she will make me sit with her while teaching me different techniques on makeup, like the last time.

  She painted my face just like hers, and I had to wear it for almost a month, because she wouldn’t let me wash it off. She said it was punishment for having a big mouth and questioning her too much.

  Now I don’t ever dare to come close to her nightstand, let alone comment on it.

  My eyes still hurt from mascara she applied and how other kids in the building teased me for days, calling me a girl time and time again.

  One boy even tried to kiss me, saying that I asked for it, but thankfully my friend stepped up in time.

  I don’t know what I would have done without him.

  “You are really not worth all this trouble, you know, Artem.” She finally speaks up, rolling her lips and then smacking them together. “You should be grateful for my generosity for keeping you here.” She spins around, slowly coming to me as her high heels click loudly on the wood floor, sending chills down my spine.

  Casting my gaze down, I hold my breath, hoping she is not too mad and won’t beat me. It might ruin her makeup, and she doesn’t like that, not when she is about to have company.

  Not too much later, she’ll be sweaty and smell funny, which will be a waste of the long shower she took earlier.

  She stops in front of me, her red heels shining brightly under the harsh light from above us. She traps my chin between her fingers and forcefully pushes my head back to face her, digging her fingers so hard I barely still the cry of pain.

  She doesn’t like me crying either, and I don’t want her even madder than she is now. “I told my sister to abort you, but she was in love with your father who disappeared into thin air. So did she listen? No. Then the stupid bitch died in childbirth. So who took responsibility for you?” she asks gently, but I don’t miss the anger lacing her tone, sending prickles of awareness through me as my body is getting ready for danger. “I did. I have to share my keep with you. So—” She lets go of me only to fist her hand in my hair and pull, dragging me to the door as I groan, but I hold my belongings tight to my chest.

  If they slip from my arms, I know she is going to throw them away. Besides, this is not the most painful treatment I’ve experienced from her.

  “Don’t dare question what I’ll buy for you. Be grateful I even waste my money on you.”’ With that, she opens the door and throws me in the hallway, where I stumble and fall to my side, hitting the wall with my shoulder, my pencils spilling on the floor and rolling in different directions. Thankfully not in hers, so she won’t bother doing anything about them now. “Don’t come back till tomorrow morning.”

  I glance at the clock hanging on the wall above our room that shows it’s eight in the evening.

  Morning in Parker’s vocabulary means after noon, because she doesn’t like to be woken up by me.

  She huffs, giving me one last glance while I still press myself to the wall, afraid she might kick me in the stomach with her heels, and that’s so painful.

  It already hurts so much. I don’t want more pain.

  “She should have aborted you. You little ungrateful piece of shit.” She shuts the door, rattling it loudly while I exhale in relief, quickly wiping the tears away from my cheeks.

  “It’s okay, Artem. She didn’t hit you tonight. It’s okay,” I murmur to myself, scooping up the pencils around me and placing them back in my bag.

  I discovered a long time ago that comforting myself is a good thing, even if I wish someone else would do it.

  I once saw how a boy fell down on the street, scraping his knees, so he started crying. His mom quickly came to his aid, patting his head and hugging him in her arms, chanting that it was okay. He stopped crying and even smiled, so after that I always do that, and it does calm me down.

  I wonder what it’s like when your mommy loves you and no one wishes you were aborted, always reminding you that the bread you are eating is their generosity and not responsibility.

  Shaking my head from those thoughts, I get up and gasp when I see Parker’s companion strolling through the corridor as he greets me. “Artem. Nice to see you, kid.” I shrink inwardly, because whenever that man looks at me, coldness envelops me, and I always need a blanket.

  Either to warm up or cover up from his stare, I’m not sure which.

  That’s why I don’t like to stay in his company.

  “I’m going to go,” I whisper, trying to bypass him and run away to the stairway exit where I can rest for the night. Grown-ups call it a fire escape, not sure why. Other kids will be there too; it’s Thursday night and usually the house is full.

  “You do that. And kid,” he addresses me, and I glance quickly at him, “I’m going to fix your life.” He winks like it’s supposed to reassure me, but I just nod, not knowing what to do, since I don’t want him angry.

  If Parker loses her best client, as she calls him, I might never be allowed to sleep in the room again and the stairway is really cold during the winter.

  Running as fast as I can through the hallways, I try to block the sounds emerging from various rooms I pass by, heavy groans and moans with loud shouts of ecstasy. At least that’s what my friend calls it. His mom once explained to him that when their clients experience pleasure, it means better pay for them.

  Not sure what that means either, but they call it sex, and it’s the most important thing in the whorehouse.

  The madam, Addison, the boss of this place who lives on the fifth floor, calls it that and keeps all the women here in line. I’m always afraid of her, because even Parker bows her head to her and stays silent when the madam comes for money, trashing the place in case Parker stashed some.

  Finally, when I reach the stairway, I push it open and see around five kids sitting near the window on the fourth floor, doing different things.

  Twin girls from room number six play with their one doll. It’s hideous with a head slightly torn off, and they giggle at each other while two other boys sit on the windowsill playing cards, or at least what’s left of them.

  I heard their moms usually share a client with special preferences, so they always hang out together. They also always have the best meals of us all, eating lunch and breakfast five times a month.

  The rest of us are lucky if we get one of those once.

  And their moms are really nice, always inviting other kids to come over and sometimes giving us warm blankets to sit in here with.

  Maybe Parker can’t stand me because I’m her nephew, a
lthough I can’t imagine my aunt ever being nice to anyone if it doesn’t involve them giving her money.

  Waving and getting chin lifts from them, I focus my stare on the boy sitting in the right corner, tapping his fingers on the top of his knees while he gazes into space, probably thinking about something global.

  It’s a big word we heard on the radio, and after that he always tells me we should do it.

  I go to him, putting my bag on the floor and dropping next to him, bouncing him a little with my shoulder, because it’s better to stay close together.

  More heat, and it will get cold soon, so other kids will join us too. We are not really friends, but no one cares about that, and we all have to wait till all the clients go home before we can go back. Madam will lock the door to the stairway once all the kids come, which might take another hour.

  Clients usually come between eight and ten.

  “Hey,” I say to him, and he blinks before turning his head to me and smiling.

  “Hey.”

  “How are you?” We haven’t seen each other in a few days, but since neither one of us knocked on each other’s door bleeding, it means it’s not that bad.

  “I’m good.” Then he sighs. “I’m thinking global.”

  I sigh, not knowing what to say to that, so I take out my pencils and paper, deciding to go back to drawing, when he snatches them from me, placing them on his lap as he extends his legs and furiously draws something.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to escape from here.”

  Escape? What does he mean?

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I heard Madam say there are too many kids in the whorehouse.” He lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “According to her, it’s time to get rid of us.” My heart starts to beat hard in my chest as fear rushes through me, and I shift a little, so I can hear him better. “Mommy cried for days after that. I can’t let that happen.” He loves his mom to pieces—at least that’s what he says, and apparently she is in this life by accident.

  Whatever that means.

  “I can’t let that happen. I need to think global, how to escape it.”

  “From the whorehouse?” I just want to make sure I get his meaning.

  He nods but then shakes his head furiously, confusing me ever more. “To get rid of it. Of them,” he murmurs, and I decide not to pay attention to his idiotic thinking.

  He always has weird thoughts, and I’ve gotten used to it.

  “Caspian, try to sleep,” I tell him, but he doesn’t listen, continuing to furiously draw something.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, because only in sleep does the pain of such a life and hunger go away, so I do my best to sleep a lot.

  And it always works.

  Before I fall asleep, I think how lucky I am to have such a good friend in this whorehouse.

  Caspian.

  A friend who will never bring me pain.

  Callista

  “Would you mind if I join you?” The spoon with the strawberry ice cream, which so far is my favorite among the six I’ve tried, pauses midway to my mouth as my eyes meet with curious blue ones.

  The woman gazing back at me must be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, and by the looks thrown her way from several men at a nearby table, I’m not the only one who thinks so.

  She has long black hair cascading down her back in heavy waves, the light reflecting through the strands where she has it thrown over her shoulder. It must reach her bottom!

  Her blue eyes are exceptionally vivid against her naturally tanned skin, and the black dress she is wearing hugs the generous curves of her breasts and butt, and when she drops down next to me without waiting for my reply, I notice her flawless back too as the dress has a low open V.

  The bottom of it reaches her midthigh, opening for her long-for-miles legs, and she probably is a model, because such beauty should be shown… well, everywhere!

  Even her scent, roses mixed with orchids and lavender, is divine, and I half expect men to jump to the table, singing her praises.

  “If I hadn’t seen you passionately kissing Arson earlier, I’d think you were checking me out.” The woman winks and then extends her hand to me. “Jimena Cortez.”

  I put the spoon down and shake her hand, so lost with what she said and my earlier hectic ramblings that I say, “Callista Castillo.” I cover my mouth, gasping, “Please don’t tell him.” I can’t believe I just spilled my real name.

  But when she is sitting here so majestic, no doubt growing up in luxury, I didn’t want to introduce myself as Chloe Davis, the captive.

  Besides, I hate the name with a passion, since Pastor gave it to me.

  And now my vanity might cost me… what exactly? It’s not like I have anything to lose, and even if Arson knew the truth… I doubt a man like him cares much about his captives once he is done with them.

  If he ever lets them go, that is.

  Still, I try again, only to avoid Arson’s anger, which will be inevitable at this point. “He doesn’t know. Please don’t tell him.” I’m not sure how they are connected; she might be his ex-lover for all I know, but there is a thing called women’s solidarity, right?

  Or maybe I’m a naïve fool who doesn’t know the first thing about real society and people in it.

  Her perfectly trimmed brows rise with disbelief, but then she laughs, the melodic sound of it easing tension within me. “Oh, I bet he doesn’t. Can’t wait to see his face once he figures it out.” I frown, not sure what to make of these words.

  He won’t be happy with the truth probably, but why would my name mean anything to him anyway?

  “Who are you?”

  She motions for the waiter to bring her water and then swings her head back to me. “I’m Santiago’s sister.” She must read on my face it means nothing to me, so she elaborates. “He is… let’s say friends with Arson. He came to visit here for a while, and I tagged along. So when Arson went over to the boys”—she points at the opposite booth that’s located on the far-right end, and I see the top of Arson’s hair—“I thought why not join you, since you are his woman. I’ve never been here, but I’ve heard about Red, the rising star.” An odd tone is lacing her voice on the last sentence while she rests her chin on her palm. “I heard she is the most beautiful woman on earth.”

  This is the most bizarre conversation I think I’ve had since… ever. Who sits by a stranger’s table and then all of a sudden starts to talk about a star of the night? “Who said that?”

  If it’s Arson, I swear to God I’m going to….

  What? What will you do, you jealous fool!

  While I accept that for some reason I’m possessive over the guy who is a serial killer, it doesn’t mean I have to like this fact.

  “Florian did.”

  Another weird name. At this point maybe someone should have given me a brochure with all the names and who the hell they are in this world, connections and past histories. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so freaking lost.

  “Oh, she must be very talented to hear such praise from him.” I’m not sure what else to say to all this.

  No one is dancing anymore, so shouldn’t she already be on stage?

  “He likes to remind me of that whenever I make a move on him. He doesn’t want me, you see. He wants her. She is his first love who got away.” After she drops this bomb on me, because oh my God, she smiles at the waiter who brings her water along with a glass, pouring the drink inside.

  Trying to read between the lines, I understand that she is in love with this guy, and apparently he has no problem trampling all over her heart, knowing the affection she has for him.

  Instantly, I feel for the woman sitting next to me, horrified with the idea of seeing your man in love with someone else. I feel nothing but physical attraction to Arson, yet the idea of him with someone else makes something inside me roar while a red haze appears in front of my eyes.

  How devastating it
must be when you actually love someone.

  She trails her finger over the rim, an annoying ringing emanating from it that grates on my nerves, but it’s like she doesn’t hear it. “I’m going to share my secret with you too. Since you trusted me with yours.” She leans closer and whispers, but she might as well have shouted the words at me. “I’m pregnant.” She sips her water, gulping it greedily before placing the glass on the table with a loud thud. “And I think I’m going to be sick now, so excuse me.” With this, she darts away in the direction of the bathroom, I assume, while I blink in shock at this but quickly snap out of it, following her and immediately remembering all the things I know about pregnancy.

  Seeing the earlier waitress, I call out to her. “Can we have a ginger tea please?” Without waiting for her reply, I keep my eyes on Jimena as she disappears behind the glistening red doors.

  I come right in time to hear her being sick and grab a towel lying near the sink, soaking it in water, noting how even the bathroom is luxurious with the boudoir-like mirrors all around and even a waiting area with a couch.

  She flushes the toilet and then comes out, pale as hell and with her hair pinned on top of her head. I give her the towel, and she accepts it, wiping her face and mouth before rinsing it and then breathing heavily. “When will this stop?”

  “It’s normal for the first trimester.”

  “It was more of a rhetorical question, babe, but thanks.” She leans on the sink, grabbing the edges with her hands, and frowns. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No. A healer.”

  “I see.”

  “Does Florian know?” That’s the father I assume, who instantly in my eyes is an asshole. Why in the hell did he sleep with her if he is in love with someone else?

  She opens her mouth to reply when the door bangs loudly as it’s kicked open, and several men—so familiar my heart sinks—storm inside.

  And among them all pushes Marcello, the ex-fiancé from hell, who steps into the middle of the spacious restroom and opens his arms wide. “Hello, Chloe. I finally found you.”