Escape, Chapter Two

Michelle

This room is so dark. It's a square, a box, four corners, and each corner is bare. Each one leads to nowhere. The floors are dark, varnished oak wood, tarnished by neglect. My shoes stick to the surface, congealed substances gripping hard.

There is a bed, placed perfectly in the centre of the room, which I’m sitting on.
Its black sheets are rumpled, untidy. They’re sodden with stains and cigarettes, sweat, condoms, all manner of filthy residue from dirty exploits. Some of them have been mine. Poor girl.

You're here again, Michelle, I think to myself. I have been here, in this room, come and gone, for many, many years now. Just visiting, I tell myself, all over soon, I add, as I always do. Does it console me, make me feel any less like shit? No, and no. Young girl that I am, all I can do is deal with this as it comes. Twenty-four, and here I am. Visiting to please, appease. Strip tease? No. I don't take pride in this. I take no pleasure. I’m here again, Brian Temple. You’ve made me come out to play.

The only shard of light creeps through shyly from the mahogany door, which is left slightly ajar. I'm tempted to get up and go but can't. I'm tempted to cry but won't.

Crossing my legs, I look round again at the room. The wallpaper is patterned with a floral design. Red and yellow flowers caressing each other as they spiral up the walls. They're faded now, left to rot. I can remember when they were brand new. I was here then. Upon the wall sits a large picture, hung crookedly in a garish metal frame. It is rusting because of the damp that seeps through the wallpaper. I squint to look at the picture, I have many times before, but I don't get up for a closer look. I can make out a family. A man, Brian, a woman, a- who is that between them? A boy, a girl? A skeleton hung with shrink-wrapped skin?

The man, Brian Temple, looks domineering, standing to the right of the skeleton, a left hand clasped firmly on its shoulder. He sports a white shirt and black tie. He is tall, severe and muscular, with stubble sprouting from his chin. His smile seems kind but his eyes are not. They're harsh, like bullet-holes. The woman, she's just blank. Eyes, dead ahead. Mouth, turned neither up nor down. Nothing to say about her.

I shuffle in my seat as I hear a few faint noises emanating from another room. I can't tell if its speech or not. I'm tempted to get up, to see who it is, but I remind myself that I don't want to know. Does it even matter anyway? Wouldn't make any difference to my being here. I've been forced to come here, to play my role in this sadistic opera, to support the hero, to engage the villain. I'm here, sat in the middle of the room on this bed that's riddled with past shames, and I don't get up and go. I'm tempted to, but I don't. I can’t.

The mahogany door shifts open, and in steps the man from the photo on the wall. He doesn't look at me at first but takes a long drag of a cigarette, before pulling it from his lips and inspecting it. He has one hand jammed into his pocket. His sleeves are rolled up to his biceps, revealing large, powerful arms. His black shirt struggles to not rip upon his toned chest. His body doesn't seem old at all. Only his greying hair gives any true indication of age.

He takes another drag.

"Good day?" he says finally. His voice is croaky from too many cigarettes, but still masculine.

What can I say? A prostitute, having a good day? When has that ever happened?
I'm tempted to launch into a long, sarcastic account, detailing what a fantastic day it’s been, but don’t. What good would it do? His question is a bridge to a wider landscape, and I can’t stop him traversing it.

"Yes. Not too bad."

He nods his head in approval of my answer and extinguishes the cigarette on one of the walls before chucking the butt upon the bed. Niceties aside, the cigarette is the indication. We both know what happens next, although I have to wait for him to say it because I cannot bring myself to do it otherwise.

"Take off all of your clothes."

I breathe slowly. This does not ever get any easier. I keep my head bowed, looking up just once. Will he tell me to stop? Please, tell me to stop, I think to myself. One word, stop, and I'll love you forever. He doesn't. The smile that exists on his face is lustful and guilty, eager and afraid, sadistic and loving, as if he knows that this is wrong, yet the pleasure he will get out of it is just too tempting. He cannot resist.

But he does. He stops, and it’s over, I’m thinking to myself. He leans in.

”You know I love, don’t you?”

What to answer? I stay silent. He brushes my hair with his palm, gently.

“I love you, I do, I want you to know that” he says, his eyes bulging, searching for something in me that will say it back.

”Take off your clothes.”

I'm naked, sitting on the bed, head bowed. He leans his nose down to my head, smells my brittle hair. His stubble scratches the top of my forehead, itching it. He kisses my forehead, then nose, and then my lips. His tongue flicks out like a serpent tasting the air. I do not kiss back. He stands back up, and tugs at his shirt buttons and belt. His clothes slip off quickly. In seconds he is naked too. I hear grunts from outside the door as he forces himself upon me, his body pressing against mine. He places his hand on my chest and grabs, squeezes.

"You need to put on a bit of weight" he says. My eyes are shut so I don’t see his face as he says it, but the malice in his voice is grating. Thanks, I think to myself. Thanks for your concern. Wonderful to know that you care. Love me.

He keeps touching and kissing my face. He tries to kiss my eyes, as if to force them open, before he tires of this and throws me over easily, his strength mountainous compared to mine. He puts his hand on the back of my head and my face is pushed down into the mattress, as is our ritual, and I inhale the damp smell of the sheets. Quickly, I bite the material, taking a cigarette butt in my mouth. The ash slips down my throat, almost making me wretch. Seconds later he is inside. The pain is unbearable, like a gun-shot, and he carries on oblivious, or uncaring of the tears that well up in my eyes. Here I am again, a receptacle of abuse. It seems to last forever, like it always does, like every second takes an hour and every minute takes a day, for this to be over. My face is still buried in the mattress, teeth clenched hard on the sheet, as he starts to move faster and faster, dribble spilling out of the sides of my mouth. I refuse to open my mouth. I'm tempted to, but all I will do is scream in agony. Poor girl. Four corners, no escape.

On and on and on. Eyes clenched shut, faced pushed down so hard I feel my nose could break. My teeth grind, grind, grind against each other as he keeps moving, pelvis thrusting like a drill inside of my body. The pain, by now, is a black-hot searing fire fuelled by his every movement. In the whole painful episode, he makes no noise, and neither do I.

Eventually, he shudders, and stops. He pulls himself out and I roll onto my back, spitting the cigarette out. I can taste the bile at the back of my oesophagus. In my chest, I can feel the surge of sadness that usually manifests itself at this stage in the encounter, and I wonder when I’ll be back here to go through this again. Tears down my cheeks go ignored. He does not, will not care. Instead, he clears his throat, stands up,gets dressed. Business as usual. Reaching around in his pockets, he hands me forty pounds. His face is red, he pants. He doesn't look at me as he hands it over. Ashamed? Probably not.

"Do whatever you want with it" he says, gesturing toward the money, turning toward the door, and then "have a good night. I'll see you soon.” This is not a question, or a wish, its an order. I will be back here. Then, still adjusting his trousers, he steps toward the door, stopping once, and saying some kind of after-thought, “I love you.”

Then he is gone and the door is firmly shut. No light. Cold, still naked, not moving. Goodbye Brian Temple. See you again soon.

I lay still, holding myself. I look back up at the photo on the wall, at the ugly skeleton, and the woman, who is still completely blank.