EMMA

 

Stepping through the doorway, my view was met by another blank wall, a bend in the walkway leading right, far from the heart of the building. Turning, I followed in the footsteps of the woman in front of me, keeping a steady pace so that the gunman behind me didn't tap me again with the reminder that death stood at my back.

It wasn't easy keeping my balance, not with the tremor of terror flowing through me. Violently I quaked, both inside and out, the hostility of my own weaknesses and fears, helplessness and disbelief a weighted cloak that dragged me down further into despair.

Although I struggled to breath evenly, the air coursing through my chest was sporadic at best. And even though I willed my heart to beat slower, it raced and left me dizzy. The tears were endless, my eyes burning, my cheeks chapped, but that discomfort was nothing compared to the bruising of my body, to the ache pulsing between my legs for what the man in the van had done.

The gritty voiced man had labeled my rapist a kid, but I found the term lacking after what he'd done. A kid is innocent, that man was a monster. A kid plays and explores life, that man had set out to destroy mine.

I hadn't reacted to the assault as much as I should have. I wondered if it was shock that forced me from my body, if it was fear of the unknown or worry about where I was being taken. Now that a few answers had been given, I thought back on what happened in that van, remembered the sensation of being bound and blind, unable to escape the humiliation. It filled me as I walked this barren hallway, a spark of anger finally coming to life.

"The showers are on the left. Be sure you grab soap and shampoo from the counter when you walk in."

Spoken without inflection, the instructions were delivered as if we were criminals being delivered to a prison, animals being driven into a pasture, victims being led to mass slaughter.

The lack of emotion was more unsettling than the environment, the absence of anger or contempt pushing the moment into the surreal. My mind told me to fight against what was being done, but still my body turned left, my hands grabbed the packet of essentials and I stepped into the gossamer curtain of steam within the showers.

It felt good to wash away the stain of lust left dripping down my legs, felt good to ease my locked muscles beneath the flow of heat if only for a few seconds. While standing under the strong spray, I could believe for that single moment that everything would be okay. But as quickly as I allowed even that inferior burst of optimism to ignite, it was stripped by the hand that gripped my shoulder and pulled me from the shower into the cold interior of the room.

"That's long enough." A towel slapped against my body. "Dry off and follow me."

Appreciative for the towel as some means of cover, I dried off quickly and wrapped the scratchy material over my body to follow the guard. He glanced over his shoulder as he stepped into the doorway leading into the hall, his motion stopping abruptly after he turned to glare at me. "Drop the towel, leave it in the room."

I didn't want to let it go, couldn't seem to unlock my fingers from where they held it closed over my body. It wasn't the best towel. Rather, it was a dirty white, stained and tattered, washed so many times that it was like sandpaper against the skin. It had holes and frays, stray threads and ripped corners, but it was the only thing providing me comfort, the only bit of modesty in an unfamiliar place.

Shaking my head minutely, I wasn't sure what came over me. That small spark of anger I'd felt after being led to the right began to pulsate and grow. It flashed and flickered, rolled and glowed, beat and surged until it was warm enough to bring to life a tiny speck of my bravery.

The guard's lips curled at the corners, his dark eyes flashing with challenge and authority. Leaning over me, his large, fleshy hands clung tightly to his rifle, as if the amalgam of metal and explosive powder somehow made him superior. My eyes darted up to his, fear tracing my spine with frozen fingers, but still I found the strength to stare.

"Drop the towel," he warned, his words enunciated with aggressive care.

I clenched the towel as tightly as he clenched his gun, our eyes locked in a battle of wills I knew I would lose but fought anyway. Something had snapped inside me, the threads spun with fear, shock and trepidation pulled taut until, one by one, they snapped.

A snide smile kicked up his lips, and before I could smile back in challenge of my own, he pushed out with the butt of his gun, slamming it against the side of my head and knocking me to the floor.

Reaching up on instinct to check for the external damage that matched the horrendous pulse of pain now coursing across my skull, I released the towel only to have the guard snatch my wrist in his meaty paw and jerk me up from the floor.

I was shoved out into the hall before I could make a sound in protest, my body just as naked as it was previously without need of one word of argument from the guard. Brute strength won, and I was returned to the pathetic victim as easily as I'd been stolen from the street.

Turning a corner, I wasn't sure what to expect, but what I found was the same woman who'd been directed to the right like me, her body perfectly still and marked by bruises while she waited in front of another damn door. I was getting tired of doors - more than that, I was getting tired of not knowing where they led.

I've never been a strong woman, have never been tough as nails, ready to tackle every problem thrown at me with style and finesse.

I was more statistical than that, a daddy's girl who expected to marry a man that was tall and strong, smart and put together, someone who could carry me though life one handed while solving every problem tossed in our path. I wanted a hero to help me through the tough times, so I never bothered exploring whether I could be a hero myself.

However, there were no strong men here to save me now. All I had was myself, and if I wanted to survive, if there was any hope for possible escape, I had to shed the damsel in distress mentality. I had to be smart. Had to be strong. Would have to endure every horror imaginable.

The door swung open and we were walked through into a scene as surprising as it was sinister, as unexpected as it was out of place.

A stage was set in front of us, the surface raised three feet from the floor. The lighting illuminated a bed positioned in the middle of that stage, the iron headboard with shackles dangling insidiously from the bars. Where we stood was dark and shadowed, as if we were an audience stepping in for the matinee. Cameras were positioned in all positions around the stage, director's chairs scattered throughout, but no production crew lumbered about, no other soul beyond the woman, the guard and me.

Until he stepped on stage. The dark haired man in the tailored suit. The one who had callously ordered the execution of a frightened woman, as well as the execution of a kid who had raped me minutes after I'd been stolen. Not for the rape itself, mind you, but for having delivered damaged goods.

On measured steps, he moved to the center of the stage, one click of the heel of his expensive shoe closely followed by the other. Unhurried, unconcerned, slow but steady, the sound of his shoes against the stage floor was a funeral dirge of sorts, a mournful beat for lives that were lost, even if our bodies were still breathing. The other woman and I had no clue what would happen next, had gone through so much already that we foolishly believed it couldn't get worse.

I would learn quickly after meeting this well dressed man, that no matter how bad your circumstance, it could always deteriorate, that Hell itself could rise up and swallow you when you'd convinced yourself you'd experienced it all.

"Fuck or die. Those are your two choices."

His silken voice traveled leisurely across the room. Spoken as if he were offering a dinner selection of steak or chicken, he faced us, bored expression in place, hands tucked casually in his pockets. Behind us, the guard stood stock still, his fleshy hands most likely clinging to his gun as if it were a vital part of his body.

The man's eyes darted to my left where the other woman stood, her posture painfully tight, her face drawn into an expression of exhaustion and dread. It may not have been obvious to any person standing at a distance, but once the man's eyes had locked on her, a tremor ran through her legs. I worried she'd collapse before answering him.

"I don't understand," she managed to whisper just loud enough for it to be heard.

A mere tilt at the corner of his lips showed his amusement. "Fuck," he repeated, "or die." Pausing, he slid his gaze between us before resettling those piercing grey eyes on the trembling woman. "I'm giving you a choice between one option or the other. I suggest you make it before it's made for you."

"I don't want to die," she confessed, tears cracking her voice apart, barely controlled sobs a quake over her small body. "I have a child. He's only a year old. I-"

"When will he turn two?" The man asked, his question unsettling for its normalcy. What did it matter when her child would have another birthday? Would we be released after he'd completed whatever it was he had planned for us?

An illusive ray of hope beamed through me at the mere possibility we would leave this place. Along with that hope came a rush of thoughts, facts I focused on as evidence that perhaps they would free us eventually, my mind finally settling on one.

They'd blindfolded us while bringing us here. Perhaps that was so we wouldn't be able to lead the authorities back to this place once freed.

"He'll be two in three months," she said, dragging my focus back to the conversation being held.

"Then you'll need to make a choice," he reminded her.

Her throat visibly swallowed down whatever toxic mixture of emotions choked her. Fingers tapping at her thighs as the only means she had to expel the terror, the chaos of a caustic storm of horror inside her, she blinked once before answering, "Fuck."

His grin tilted higher. "Excellent choice. You'll be alive for your son's second birthday. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two," she admitted, a new strength to her voice after hearing she would live following the decision she'd made.

"Then you'll be alive for his third birthday as well. Congratulations."

The woman cried out in relief, almost buckling over herself now that she had some semblance of hope.

Jutting his chin in my direction, he called out to the guard. "Secure her. We have a film to make."

Grabbed by the shoulders, I was dragged back, the sound of metal hinges scraping before I was gagged and stuffed in a cage. The door slammed shut just as the woman turned to look at me. Fear crept in to diminish the relief she'd once had.

His chin jutted in her direction next. "Secure her as well. Let's get started."

Stepping down the three small steps I hadn't noticed on the side of the stage, the man rounded the front watching as the other woman was dragged up steps on the opposite side.

She cried as they led her to the bed, begged to be let go as they pushed her to the mattress and locked her arms into the shackles. So focused on what they were doing to her, I hadn't noticed the man approaching my cage. He knelt down when my eyes peered up at him, one of his hands folding over the top bar as he studied me.

With a soft voice, he warned, "Pay close attention to what happens here. You still have a choice to make. But if you utter even one small sound while I'm filming, I'll make that choice for you. Do you understand?"

Nodding my head without hesitation, I stared in stupefied shock. "Yes," I finally answered, the word muffled by the gag.

"Good."

Back on his feet, he approached the stage, standing in place behind the cameras as more people rushed in to take their places among the machines. One man carried a clapboard, another sound equipment, and another more lighting devices that were placed in specific places around the room.

I was watching a film production - the realization trapped me in its grasp. The surreal quality about the scene warped my reality viciously, twisting it and skewing it until I wondered if death wouldn't have been the better choice.

"Bring in the men," the man called out, and for the first time, I understood who he was. Astute, wealthy I assumed, well spoken, firm and overly attentive, there was no other role he would fill better.

It took the stage and cameras for me to see it, the frenetic activity as sound was checked and lights were changed. It took watching him stand among it all, his focus on the stage, his body held in patient wait.

He was the Director, the man behind the screen, the puppet master who pulled the strings of every person around him. We were not separate individuals and lives, we were part of a whole - his whole - without need for our permission. Characters aligned on a storyboard, we were intended for his purpose - a purpose I didn't yet know.

Pulling a pair of wire framed glasses from a pocket inside the jacket of his suit, he read over a stack of pages given to him by one of the production crew. "Yes, that will do," he opined. "Let's begin."

The room went silent after every person took their place. The director took off his eyeglasses, tucked them in his inside jacket pocket and inclined his head toward a woman now holding the clapboard. She raised the top, her voice deeper than I'd expected. "Forced Silence, take -"

"Wait," the director called out. The woman paused with the top of the clapboard still raised, her mouth hanging open on the last word she'd intended to say.

Stepping toward the stage, he trained his gaze on the woman cowering on the bed. She was crying by this point, huge body quaking sobs that shook the mattress beneath her.

"For this particular film, I'll allow you to ad lib your part. Fight as much as you want. Scream. Cry. Beg. This is your introduction into your new life - your debut to the world at large. Make me believe it. Understand, however, that this is only the first phase. Play your role well, and the span of your time here will go a lot smoother."

The woman on the bed nodded her head, tears dripping from her jawline to soak the mattress below.

He stepped back and flashed a look at the woman holding the clapboard.

"Forced Silence, scene one. Take one."

The top of the clapboard slapped down, the sharp noise ricocheting like a bullet through the room. Three men entered from the right side of the stage, each naked but for the hoods they wore to cover their faces. Black leather with eyeholes covered in mesh, nose holes and a zipper at the back, the masks took away the humanity - the soul - of the men who approached her, leaving just the hard bodies - the machines - that would do their worst.

A keening sound crawled up the woman's throat. Soft at first, it grew louder as the men drew closer.

She screamed when the first man struck out, the shackles holding her wrists clanging like bells against the iron headboard. He tugged her forward by her ankles, the violence of the shackles yanking her arms above her head was obvious enough that I felt it within my own tendons and bones. The woman fought. She kicked out, writhed, her legs like two pistons running a fast paced engine, but the man overpowered her, pulling her so hard that her body was lifted off the bed, held taut between the shackles and his hands.

This wasn't fantasy pornography, wasn't a practiced scene between two consenting actors. This was raw footage of one of the most demeaning acts a human being could suffer. Her screams filled the room, bouncing off the walls and colliding together as one echo met the next. I watched in pure horror, my jaw hanging open uselessly, my eyes unblinking as I stared forward. The guard standing beside my cage laughed softly when the man holding the woman's ankles parted them enough for the other two men to get a strong grip over her thighs, helping the first man open her legs to his eyes.

The first man released her ankles, crawling up onto the bed between her legs, his erection a hard threat between them. He waited as another man rounded the bed to hold her shoulders to the mattress, the last man moving to the other side to pull something from a nearby table. I couldn't see it clearly, couldn't make out what it was, but after watching him place it over her mouth and hook it to wires, the breath caught on my lungs.

A deep, calm voice filtered through the room, but I couldn't determine its source. "Shhhhh, stay quiet, or else."

She screamed just before a light burst from the device tucked over her mouth, her body arching up as if driven by an electrical current. It only lasted a second, but it felt like an eternity. The beat of my heart stopped briefly when I understood what they were doing. When my pulse returned, it was frantic.

Forced Silence. The title repeated in my head until the scope of the act was clear. For every noise this woman made, she'd be punished by an electrical current being driven through her body.

It only took shocking her once to stop the struggle, and the man between her legs edged up to seat himself against her body. Pulling my focus from the horror playing out in front of me, I directed my attention to the puppet master pulling the strings.

Silently, he motioned for the cameramen to move in and find the best angles, for the boom operator to lower the mic in order to catch every sound the woman made. There was no rush, no urgency, no concern or hesitancy, just a man recording his story, a monster documenting every second of the woman's rape.

From the slap of skin against skin, from the thrust of hips and the small sounds crawling up the woman's throat, I knew the man was using her just as I'd been used in the van.

The deep voice returned. Clear. Concise. Cut through with heavy breathing. "You like that don't you, slut?" His hands gripped her hips, lifting her higher. "Fuck, you feel so good. I'll fuck you until you cry." His hips thrust harder. "More tears, beautiful. Keep them coming."

Although it wasn't me on that stage, wasn't my body held in place by three men, wasn't my voice stolen by threat of pain, I still died a little inside.

When the voice cut through the room again, I realized there were mics within the masks worn by the men, it was the only possible reason their voices could be so clear. "Fuck yes," he growled as his hips thrust forward one more time, the cheeks of his muscular ass clenching together as he finished off inside her.

He dropped her hips, pulled free and climbed off the bed. One man removed the device from her mouth, only for her to scream again. It wasn't terror lacing her voice, just the deep, mournful bellow of a woman giving up her will to live.

"Turn her over. It's my turn."

Dark laughter filled the room, the cameras shifted, the boom operator running quickly to the left of the stage to capture the woman's cries as she realized what would occur next.

"Cut," the director called out. All movement stopped. "Camera 2, I want a close up taken from the side of the woman's body. Use the handheld on this scene. Climb up there, if necessary. I want another camera on her face. Every expression must be caught. We have one shot at this."

His voice was professional and matter of fact, not an ounce of sympathy found within the deep tenor. The production team took their places, the woman whimpering where she was held down on the bed.

The director's voice rang out again. "Be sure to get a close up of the modified gag. I need the viewers to understand its function. Everybody in place," he commanded. The room went silent before he nodded his head toward the woman with the clapboard.

Lifting the top, she held it and said, "Forced Silence, scene two, take one." The slap of the clapboard cut through the silence.

It was no surprise as the poor woman was tugged down, jerked sideways and positioned over the side of the bed. And at that point, my shock was numbing me to the degradation, the violence, the horrid reality that she was being used as a pawn in some monster's game.

I was helpless to assist, caged and gagged, cast aside to sit and witness the consequence of the choice she'd been forced to make. Unable to process the scene, I watched as the men positioned themselves to rape her again, my eyes tracking the gag they shook in her face.

"One noise out of you and this gag will cut through your gums. I yank. It cuts. Do you understand?"

She nodded her head, her eyes practically swollen shut as they fit the device over her mouth. From where I sat, it resembled the same gag tied around my head, except for the gleam of metal stitched into the cloth. I couldn't clearly make out the design, but I didn't need to. It was demonstrated a few moments later as to its purpose.

With the gag placed just under her lips, the man behind her held the ends at the back of her head, his free hand working to position himself at the entrance of her body. He thrust his hips and the sound that emanated from her mouth was inhuman. Covering my ears to the shrill cry that sliced the air with the horrendous truth of where he'd invaded her, my eyes were still wide and unblinking to see blood trickling down her legs.

My gaze tracked to her face, to the crimson stain trickling down her cheeks that matched.

The man raping her laughed. "I told you to be quiet," he scolded her, his hips now moving at a rhythmic pace.

I couldn't watch anymore, couldn't fathom how any person could stand idly by and witness this.

Eventually the screams died down, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air as her voice turned to whimpers. She was forced silent again, and just for watching, so was I.

The man finished and pulled out of her body, the director's astute voice yelling, "Cut! That's a wrap. Get her to clean up and medical. Everybody else, set the next stage."

 

The next stage.

My stage.

 

My stomach lurched, bile creeping up to coat my tongue while I fought not to vomit. Trapped in a cage, it was useless trying to escape. And that fact was never more obvious than when the director turned to look at me.

While people moved around him, the ebb and flow of activity somehow bending around his personal sphere, he approached me with no hurry to his steps. I counted each fall of his foot as he approached, held my breath when only a few feet existed between us, made a bleak decision when he was close enough to kneel down and look me in the eye.

"So, what will it be?" He asked, the silky croon like sandpaper against my senses now that I understood the type of monster he was. "Fuck or die?"

My eyes locked on his face, on the dark contours of his angled cheeks, on the stubble running along his square jaw, on the dusting of silver at his temples. He was mesmerizing in both beauty and intensity, the picture unsettling for the monster I knew existed beneath the cultured and powerful facade.

Dragging in a breath despite my lungs' refusal, ignoring the pain in my fingers from being locked around the cold, metal bars of my cage, fighting against the instinct implicit to every living creature to survive, I made a decision that was in opposition to what I wanted.

It wasn't a cognitive decision at first, simply a subconscious understanding that, when floated to the surface of my thoughts, made me rally against myself. Disbelief suffocated me, the need to survive screaming and begging while I knew it was the only decision I had left.

I wouldn't willingly suffer the horror I just witnessed.

I wouldn't subject myself to torture in order to buy more time.

I wasn't strong enough to endure when an easier escape was within my reach.

Perhaps I was a coward for the choice I knew I'd make, but I made it regardless because I refused to bend to the creative will of a psychopath.

Locking my eyes to his clear, grey gaze, I swallowed down the battle I chose not to fight.

"I choose death," I answered, preferring the quickness of a bullet to the pain of captivity, abuse, and a long drawn out demise.

The corners of his lips tilted up, amusement a flicker behind his piercing eyes. "Are you sure?"

I didn't have to acknowledge his question for him to know I wouldn't change my mind. Silence beat between us, growing so thick that its weight buried us both. Breaking it finally, he cornered me with a response I'd never even guessed he would give.

"Fine, then," he said, his words spoken slowly - cryptically. "Allow me to show you what that looks like."