An Hour Later
The door creaked open, and the Mask came in smelling faintly of pipe smoke and cloves. He stood there for a moment, waiting for me to bow my head in his presence.
“Autumn,” he said, folding his hands behind his back, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I lifted my gaze. “I’ll be gone for a few days. X and I have some business. We are entertaining some of Winter’s fans.”
I kept my hands folded in front of me. “Yes, Sir.”
“Sonny’s still at Yale, but the Collector will be here. You’ll be on your best behavior.”
“I will, Sir.”
He walked to the wardrobe, opened it, and began sorting through the clothes inside. This was nothing new. He always chose my outfits. Hangers scraped against the metal rod, a screech I envied for its freedom. He paused on a lavender dress and traced a finger down the front. Spring’s favorite color.
Then he set it aside and chose another. This one was peach. It had thin straps and lace along the neckline.
“This one is perfect for you.”
He opened the top drawer, taking out folded undergarments. The sound of fabric brushing against fabric made my throat tighten. He laid everything across the bed.
“Pretty things for a pretty girl.”
I nodded once, my face still. “Thank you, Sir.”
It was required to respond, and the words formed easily enough. My thoughts—on the other hand—screamed silently, ‘go to hell’.
His hand brushed a wrinkle from the dress, and then he turned to me. “You miss Sonny, don’t you?”
Hell no, I didn’t, but that would get me beaten, so I dug deep. “Yes, Sir. I really do.”
“He asks about you every night. Wants to know if you’re being good.”
“I have been. I promise.”
He stepped closer, stopping in front of me, and wrapped his arms around my body.
I had to fight not to go rigid. His coat was warm against my cheek, the fabric thick and heavy with his cologne.
Bile climbed up my throat, but I kept my hands at my sides.
I couldn’t breathe too fast or flinch for fear he’d see it as resistance.
Inside my mind, I retreated, searching for distance, for air. Every muscle screamed to move, to twist away, but I didn’t. Instead, I suffered through what I’m sure he thought was a loving gesture.
“I’ll be back home as soon as I can. Would you like me to bring you something special?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Inwardly, I cringed at the way my response sounded. It came out soft and obedient. He lingered another minute, and I feared he wanted to watch me change, but then he moved toward the door. As it closed behind him, I listened to his receding footsteps.
Then I looked at the dress on the bed, hating it with every beat of my heart. I wished death upon him in every vile way imaginable as I changed. It wasn’t long before the Collector came for me. Summer and I made our way over to the seating area and took our spots.
Saint-Saens, ‘The Swan,’ the thirteenth movement of The Carnival of the Animals, was the theme music of the night. I’d gotten good over the last year, especially at remembering the names of the songs.
I forced myself to look at Mischa this evening as she danced. That was until the guilt became more than I could bear, and my head lowered. The Collector wouldn’t dare touch me or correct me for not watching.
My thoughts shifted as the sounds of Winter’s cello filled the air. I drifted away into my secret, safe world, the one where the real me lived. In my head, I sketched. My imaginary pencil moved effortlessly. Faster and faster until my breathing matched the fevered pitch of my idea.
The room faded farther away, and all that remained was the canvas in my head. Dipping my brush into the inky black paint, I added the first stroke. The scene was far from happy; it was a direct reflection of us at that exact moment in time.
It became engraved in my memory, like each of their faces had.
Darkness and shadows danced before me, and a chilling depiction took shape.
In the center of my mind, a car drove down an empty road.
All four of us crammed into the back seat.
I painted myself first—black hair like spilled ink, blue eyes heavy with guilt.
I didn’t want to be the chosen one, the favorite. The burden was too much for me to carry. Summer sat beside me, hope smothered beneath resignation. She had given up, and I couldn’t blame her. I was painting them in my head as authentically as I could.
Winter stared forward, her once-bright hair dimmed, her green eyes empty. She gazed out the front window, distant and detached from everyone.
Mischa small on Winter’s lap, hair tangled, eyes too full of pain. I drew her as she was that day in the two-way mirrored room because at least then she was dressed, unlike tonight. She looked lost and confused in a world that was too cruel for someone so sweet and innocent.
I added a stuffed animal for her in my drawing.
Something soft and comforting. Something she could hold onto.
Collectively, we were suffering, and I captured the essence of our shared misery, despair and at the crossroads where my emotional turmoil met my art, the bond we shared was only solidified on a deeper level.
The music became a distant hum, replaced by a symphony of my own imagination. I conjured up the feeling of my hand gliding across the canvas as more details emerged. The scent of fresh paint, and X’s hand on the steering wheel. The Mask sat in the passenger seat.
A noise had my head whipping up. I prayed it wasn’t the Mask coming back for a last-minute item. I didn’t want him to catch me not paying attention. A small pinkie poked my knee. Without looking, I wrapped mine around it.
It was our small way of defiance, a quick squeeze to say you’re not alone.
I’m here. Summer’s audible gasp rippled through me, and my heart leaped hard against my chest. Fear clawed at my insides like Hercules did the bag that hot summer day.
I couldn’t trust what I was seeing, and when the music stopped, so did my heart.
This wasn’t real. Look down, squeeze your eyes closed. It’s a dream.
With my head lowered and fixed on my lap, I immediately recited the rules in my head. Sheer terror consumed me, wrapping around my heart and squeezing tightly. I dared not look up, afraid of what I’d see.
Afraid that this moment was shockingly unreal and when reality hit, it would destroy me entirely. My breathing became shallow, and I trembled. Footsteps grew louder, two men by the sound. Uncertainty paralyzed me.
“Do you speak English?”
Those four little words were uttered, and then a single gunshot rang out. It echoed through the hall. The Collector collapsed to the floor, and my world fractured around me. Panic seized me, and I dropped to my knees, unable to bear the weight of the unknown.
My lips trembled, and I folded my hands.
I hadn’t prayed in so long, but in that moment, it was all I knew to do.
Surely if this was a trick, the Mask wouldn’t hurt me for praying.
The words spilled silently from my lips.
I repeated the childish prayer, the one I had memorized and said every night with my papa.
I sensed his nearness in that moment. “It’s going to be okay. My friend and I are going to take you away from this place. But we need to move quickly. I’m going to pick you up now.”
My eyes shot open, and our eyes met. Sincerity and compassion stared back. It was such a stark contrast to the cruelty and manipulation I was used to seeing in a man’s eyes. It was reminiscent of home. And the thoughts of home broke me.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said calmly, and I realized I was struggling against him. “I know you don’t understand, but it’s all going to be okay now.”
I didn’t mean to scratch the man, but in my panic, I did. To say I was overwhelmed was an understatement. In my head, I expected the Collector to rise from the floor and the Mask and Sonny to come storming around the corner.
It’s why I fought. My instincts, which were all I could rely on, were jumbled, and fear of the unknown had me imagining all types of horrible punishments if this were a fake test of our obedience.
It was messed up on every level, and I wanted to scream at the girls to fight, to not trust these men. Yes, they’d swooped in like guardian angels and seemed like the real deal, but I’d resigned myself to the fate the Mask had for me long ago.
Relief should have had me asking the men to go faster, to get us away from here. It should have washed over me like a warm blanket, but that sensation was nowhere to be found.
The man, who kept telling me to calm down and that I was safe, had an American accent. Everything happened simultaneously, fast and slow, for me. I sought the other girls’ reactions, hoping that in them I would find answers.
Summer and Winter both were in a daze. Mischa actually screamed into the night at one point, and I cowered in fear, hoping she didn’t call forth her own demise. I was already sitting inside the black car so like the coward I was, I buried my head in my lap and cried.
At one point, she joined us in the car, and pure exhaustion overcame all of us. Not a single moment on the long drive did I believe this was real—that we were being rescued. My brain just couldn’t comprehend it was over. Everything happened quickly after that.
Mischa had one more meltdown, one that kept me awake all night.
A female doctor had to give her a shot to calm her down.
The same woman would come and try to talk to me later.
I refused to answer verbally and shook my head yes or no and only to some of her questions.
Fear held me silent, and it would become my new security default.
Once more, I was called from my new room and given the opportunity to say goodbye to Mischa.
It was at that point that I allowed myself to feel a small measure of relief.
The Mask wouldn’t have allowed it. He would say she would taint me, corrupt me and make me bad like she was.
It was why he insisted we never speak to one another.