A Disturbing Short Story
Unable to move, mouth hanging open, I watch as my phone is smashed on the hardwood floor of the hallway and stepped on for good measure by a woman I thought was my friend.
“No one’s ever gotten out before, so don’t even bother trying.” No idea where I am, or what’s going on, but, when I turn around, I see the weirdest bunk bed situation ever. On the bottom is a regular Queen-Sized bed, on top is what I can only describe as a double-wide hammock, suspended from four hooks in the ceiling, as opposed to two; I can see the decomposing foot and the wine-colored pants cuff sticking over a bit from the side. “Cameras are on, the guests want entertainment. Strip down and start getting friendly with ol’ Jeffrey, there.”
Maybe I am in a bit over my head – when I said I was into necrophilia, I was just joking, trying to fit in to this new crowd I found myself getting sucked – and fucked – into. Maybe I don’t think I’m much to look at, but I definitely don’t look like my 22 years and people seem to be into that sort of sick shit. When you’re finally surrounded by people who are powerful, respected by society, you assume outrageous shit like this is just them trying to get a reaction out of you.
So, you play along.
The door shuts and locks behind me. In the far corner of the room, I see a camera pointed directly at the hammock, the corner I can see of the egress window completely dark with night. Fuck, so they’re definitely watching me. Dutifully, I begin to undress, while checking out my surroundings. This looks like a smaller version of the Master Bedroom I’d already fooled around with several people in, when I’d first arrived, only much less decoration and pale beige walls. Off to the left, a short hallway with choice plush linens on stark shelves at the end and a cased opening leading to a bathroom to the right, the only door being the frosted glass of the standing shower. Chillingly enough, this place looks like the end result of my grandparents flipping the worst house on the nicest block they could afford before they move on to the next.
Zzzzt! “We’re waiting!!” No idea where that sound came from, but it definitely freaks me out enough to finally, gingerly, slip off my black and purple Doc Martens. Maybe I’m still in shock from watching people biting the face of a severed head that was pulled out of the fridge, not wanting to be the next one… taking off my top, I glance over at ‘Jeffrey’. …or maybe I do.
Taking a moment, I examine myself in the trim-less vanity mirror plastered on the majority of the bathroom wall, in front of the white marble sink – the black and purple aesthetic reflects in my underwear set, the stockings, the garters, the face makeup, and my fingernails, which are now chipped and flaking. The only thing that doesn’t follow is my long hair, bleached white and dyed lilac, with a few strands left as-is for my own personal unicorn vibe.
I go back into the bedroom and notice something specific – there’s only the one camera. Good news is, I at least know where to play to my audience. I step on the bed on the floor to pop up to take a peek and see his head is gone. Funny – I thought the “snack” was a woman, turns out Jeffery was just very fem… Oh, I get it. Dude doesn’t look a thing like the makeup guru with three ’e’s; way too heavy for heroin chic.
Shoving the thought of the dried tendons sticking out from the stump from my mind, I notice a few more corpses in varying states of decay. These, however, have the heads intact, almost as if they exist for decoration and not for play. As I “get in” the hammock, I hear the bones clack together and shudder; roaring laughter and applause rises from the first floor, and I have the sneaking suspicion I’m currently being viewed on the big screen.
No need to bore you with details that I’ve all but suppressed myself.
Early the next morning, I am awakened by one of my captors smiling and sipping a drink. “Very nice, Ella,” he muses, using the first half of my online moniker, “you just bought yourself another night playing party favor. Remember, you’re not going anywhere, so don’t even try.”
As soon as the door is closed, I spring into action. To be fair, I don’t have any real plan, I just know now is my chance, pulling on my shirts in no particular order, zipping up my shorts, and putting the boots back on before jumping back into the hammock, hoping the tv was turned off after the festivities. Per fire code, the egress window DOES open, the screen is even amiable enough to slide back without having to be kicked out. The bare sticks and limbs of a sickly line of crabapple trees are the only solace from a two-story drop. A few cuts and scrapes, I can manage; spraining an ankle, I cannot. Something tells me I am only going to have one shot at this.
“No one’s ever gotten out before”? More like “no one’s ever tried after you mindfucked them.” Carefully, I shimmy my lithe frame out of the window backwards, holding on to the ledge before looking over my shoulder, letting go of one arm, and making the leap. Sticks are already beginning to break with telltale snaps, climbing down as quickly as possible. The slender trunk sways slightly, as I approach safety, and I end up banging my foot on the metal barrier to the basement egress. Without stopping to check if there is a reaction to the sound, I start to sprint to my left.
The neighborhood looks eerily upper-class suburban, bathed in foggy dawn backlight, despite a field being the entirety of the other side of the block. My first thought is to run into a dense cluster of evergreens in front of the next-door neighbor’s house, in case anyone runs out to find me. Once inside, overwhelmed by the fragrance, I realize it is not going to hide a black and purple mass of cowering goth, no matter how much I tuck myself into the clump. Busting out of the other side, I keep going. These boots are definitely not made to go out for track, but it doesn’t matter – with the sun warming my left side, I can deal with the heaviness, knowing my options.
Should I run up and bang on the door of one of these houses? Maybe they can call the cops. A voice in the back of my mind tells me this is a horrible idea, that Richies like this all look out for each other, and who knows who’s been paid off and who hasn’t? No, I have to get out of here – my wallet is long-gone, I imagine, but I still have my goth shoes with a few hundreds hidden under the orthopedic lifts, I can at least buy a bus ticket and a phone at the next cell phone store I see in the first metropolis on the schedule. From there I can access my Paypal; being a YouTube Social Media Star has its advantages, including doing an emergency broadcast for more funds from fans, if needed. Would anyone believe me?
As I run back to the main drag, I see a T-intersection with a stately mansion sitting squarely in the center, a properly-manicured hedge sitting between the entrances of the semi-circle driveway. For the life of me, I can’t remember which way to go, being ridiculously intoxicated and more focused on impressing the company, when we arrived. My default is to say ‘right’, which requires crossing the road, but my instincts pipe up again, clearly indicating I should prepare to go left, despite my lack of sunglasses. As I near the ‘T’, I can make out a delicate white wire fence in the shape of arches in front of the hedge and start to veer the direction of my chosen destination.
A smile bursts across my face, as I briefly shield my eyes from the glare to see the beginnings of civilization in the distance; I’ve never been so happy to see a Denny’s sign on the horizon or hear the bustle of commuter traffic in my life.
