EMMA

Forced through three sets of doors, each leading to something more horrifying than the last, I was finally directed down another long hall, past the showers and into another area that was locked tight with electronic keypads and pneumonic doors. The guard shoved my face down practically to my knees as he keyed in the access code, the electronic beeps sounding in six different tones. Although I hadn't seen the sequence of numbers he pushed, I wondered if I could remember the sounds and repeat them in an effort to escape.

Not now while this guard held me, but possibly in the future, if I ever managed to run down the halls by myself. It was a long shot, I was sure, and the time it would take me to find the correct sequence made that escape impossible. I wasn't even sure that entering a wrong code wouldn't set off alarms.

The door hissed open and a cold chill reached out with frozen fingers to caress my naked skin. Forced through the door, I was allowed to straighten my posture, to see the winding hallway with equally spaced single bulbs hanging from the ceiling to light our way. The guard didn't seem to mind the drastic change in temperature, but then, he had clothes to keep out the chill. I was shivering so hard by the time we made a right and a left that I almost missed when the solid walls opened up and transitioned into the bars of individual small cells.

These were the cages, no doubt, and hidden inside the shadows of each one I saw movement as whoever was trapped scurried back to hide. I highly doubted hiding in the shadows did them much good, but what other choice did they have? It was still a natural instinct to shrink away from a predator, to attempt to disguise yourself from the probing eyes of something much stronger than you that only intended harm.

Reduced to animals, these women resembled mutts trapped in a pound - forgotten, unloved, and just waiting for the day when their number was drawn for execution.

We wound our way past three rows of cells, both sides of the walls lined by them. I tried to keep count, but lost the ability after twenty, my attention unfocused as fear and hatred flooded through me. Another turn led to another dark hall where I was led to the end and told, "Stand still."

It was hard to remain completely still as he'd demanded since my body was shivering violently and my teeth wouldn't stop chattering. After pulling a key from a ring on his side, he unlocked the door to an empty cell and shoved my body inside. Slamming the door closed, he peered through at me from the other side of the bars. "Consider this your new home. I hope you enjoy your stay with us."

I could still hear him laughing at his poor attempt at a joke as he disappeared down the hall on an unhurried stride. Spinning to glance at the bleak seven by seven square space behind me, I first noticed the steel cot that I assumed was used for a bed and the single, ten gallon bucket in the opposite corner. I didn't want to imagine what it was used for. I wasn't an idiot, it must have been a makeshift toilet, but even the thought of squatting over that thing had me dry heaving on an empty stomach.

"Fuck," I mumbled, "what the hell have I gotten myself into?"

I didn't expect an answer, so I jumped when a small voice responded, "Hell being the operative word."

Spinning to my right, I peered into the cell next to me. A woman lay on the steel cot, her body folded into a fetal position against the grating cold. She didn't move or do anything else to indicate she was alive, but I'd definitely heard her pain-filled voice.

Padding barefoot over cement floors, I wrapped my fingers around the bars, my eyes squinting against the shadows to attempt to see her features. "How long have you been here?" I asked, my voice quiet for fear a lingering guard would hear me.

She groaned as she shifted on the steel that must have felt like ice. "I came in with you, don't you remember? Apparently, I'm now a star."

My eyes widened, my jaw dropping open. She was the woman being shocked into silence. "Are you okay?"

"No," she groaned again. "I'm not. And I'm starting to believe I should have chosen death."

My thoughts traced back to the second studio, my expression tightening with dismay. "Um, no. I hate to tell you, but that option is even worse. Sure, you'd be free of this place by now, but you'd go out the same way as the film he made of you. The only difference is they would torture you until you're dead."

She didn't respond immediately and when I heard the soft sniffles, I knew she was crying. Tears welled in my eyes instantly, her pain reminding me of my own. I didn't know if it was shock, adrenaline or something else that kept me standing during the horrible events I’d witnessed, but somehow I’d managed to get through this place without falling onto the ground into a trembling, screaming puddle of flesh.

Not knowing what to say that wouldn't hurt her more, I went with a simple question. "What's your name?"

"Melanie," she answered, her voice disjointed as she struggled to speak clearly. The cold captured the soft brush of vowels, the pain punctuating the clipped consonants. Several seconds passed before she spoke again. "Melanie Patrick."

Despite the lack of necessity, she'd given me her full name. Perhaps, it was a polite mannerism beat into her as a child, or the woman lying in shadow just wanted someone to know that she'd died here. Remembering she had a son, I almost asked his name just to keep her talking, but I decided forcing her to think of the little boy she wasn't home to hug would only cause her more pain.

"My name is Emma," I whispered back at her. "Emma Hart."

She didn't respond and I continued talking to fill the silence. I hoped my voice could be a balm to the agony and fear that she was feeling. It's what my mom had done for me when I was young, always pulling out my favorite storybook to read to me when I was stuck in bed with some sickness. I wasn't always awake enough to listen to the stories she told, but just the sound of her voice soothed me. It let me know that somebody was near, that somebody valued me enough to love me.

"I was stolen from a street in downtown Boston. Stupid me had decided it was a good idea to jump out of an asshole's car in the worst part of town thinking I would be safe long enough to catch a cab. Unfortunately, not many taxis drive through that area, so I walked a couple blocks hoping to get somewhere better. I was snatched by the third block, dragged into an alley and stuffed inside a van."

My voice quieted as I readied a new story to tell her. The first one seemed too depressing. But before I could speak again, she filled the silence with her tiny, tear filled voice. "You don't sound like you're from Boston."

Surprised by her response, I stared over at her to see her shoulders shaking in the dim light. "I'm from Florida originally. Orlando, specifically. Down there is such a clusterfuck of tourists that we really don't have accents. I'm not really sure why that is, but it's what my mom always told me."

Soft laughter floated between us. At least I'd given her that much, the opportunity to find some humor in this miserable place.

"I'm from Charleston, but I don't have the accent either. I moved there with my fiancé a year before he up and left me." The admission must have stripped away all the humor I'd given her. She was quiet for a moment before saying, "But that's just another sad story in a long line of them. I'm originally from Colorado."

"I've always wanted to visit there. It's gorgeous in all the pictures."

A beat of silence and then, "I guess, depending where you are. It has good parts and bad, just like any state."

My toes were going dumb from the cold concrete at my feet, icy spears ramming up my legs as that cold chased the network of nerves through my body.  Not wanting to sit down where it was gross, I realized quickly there wasn't a safe choice in this place. I highly doubted the guards came in here after a woman was dead just to sanitize. Giving my feet some relief, I finally slid down to the floor, a hiss of breath bursting over my lips to feel the concrete rubbing against sensitive places.

Still trying to avoid the topic of her son, I asked a question to appease my curiosity. "What was it like in medical?"

"Worse than on stage. They don't give you anesthetic as they stitch you up. I think I screamed louder there than I did when I was raped."

Remembering back, I chose not to remind her she hadn't really screamed that much. The electric shock and razor lined gag prevented it.

"Do you think we'll live through this?" she asked, her voice soft and timid.

"I don't know," I answered honestly.

More silence passed and I thought she'd fallen asleep. Hating how cold the floor was against my skin, I decided to get up and move to the cot - not that the cold steel would be any better.

Before I could move, Melanie's voice floated through the air again. "Did you recognize who the director was by any chance?"

My weight shifted over the concrete. "What do you mean recognize him? He looked like a monster to me."

It was like music every time I heard her soft laughter, like a velvet lie draped over the skin to hide the truth of the razor being dragged across our lives.

"You must not get out much. He is a monster. I agree with that." Drawing in a deep breath of air, she released it slowly. "But I also recognize him as someone else. I think he's Ethan Cole."

"I don't know who that is."

She spoke slowly, taking a breath between every third or fourth word she managed to say. "Only one of the best directors known to man. How do you not know? He's directed some of the most popular horror movies and thrillers that I've seen. He was a genius, but then he just disappeared. People thought he ran off to live rich and happy in the Caribbean. Other people wondered if he'd committed suicide or had been committed to some mental institution. I always wondered what happened to him. He was always so strange, yet fascinating."

Melanie's voice was almost reverent on the last few words, admiring a man who had her tortured and raped so he could film it.

"Guess you can stop wondering. We both know now." In afterthought, I added, "I wish I didn't"

"Yeah," she agreed regretfully. "Me too."