Disclaimer: The Rocky Horror Show is the propertly of Richard O'brien, not me.
The Last Picture Show
The closing of the old picture house seemed like a monumental, historical event to Trixie, perhaps because she had so far led such a short life, perhaps because this was the first place she had worked, where all her friends worked, where her entire life centred, and she had never known anything like that before. Sure, there would be other jobs, but nothing like this.
She had asked to work the last showing, though it wasn't her regular shift, because of how much the cinema meant to her and because she wanted to be there at the end, though she wasn't sure why. It just happened to be her favourite show, the late-night science fiction double feature.
Dressed in her bubblegum-pink uniform and laden with a tray of choc ices, Trixie walked through the lobby. She looked at people, mainly regulars of the double feature, but a few she didn't recognise.
"Hi…" said a young man, about her own age or so, looking down to find her badge but getting a little bit distracted by her cleavage. "…Trixie."
"Hello," replied Trixie. "Would you like an ice cream?"
"No," replied the man. He was dressed gothically, in black trousers, jacket and boots, and his hair was black, quite obviously dyed. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you. My friends and I'll be in the back row during the show. Do you want to come and hang with us?"
"Okay," Trixie agreed. "I'll see you after it starts."
"See you," he called after her.
Nice boy, Trixie thought as she entered the auditorium. Slightly odd though.
Trixie whiled through the time before the show, selling out of choc ices, despite the audience being quite small, the main reason why the cinema had to close. As the last audience members took their seats, the lights went out and the reel started in the projector, Trixie made her way to the back row. The back half of the cinema was virtually deserted, the majority of the small audience liking to sit closer to the front, but there was the goth man, right at the back, with his friends; another man and two women, waving her over.
"Hi," she whispered, sitting down.
"Hi," replied the goth man, the dim outline of his smile just visible in the light of the film.
They sat and watched the movie for a while. It was a great film, one of Trixie's favourites, chosen to make the last show a good one. But once, Trixie looked over, and realised that the people she was sitting with were not focusing on the movie, but on her. Slightly confused, she returned to the film, as they didn't seem to have noticed.
"Trixie," the man she had spoken to earlier whispered in her ear.
"What?" she whispered back.
"C'mere."
She was about to register her confusion, when suddenly he grabbed her and kissed her. She tried to push him away, but he refused, finally breaking free and bending her over backwards to meet the lips of one of his companions. She could feel another set of lips on her chest, and a pressing hand on her arm. A huge weight fell on her, and groping fingers covered her body. She could feel him poking. She felt her skirt lifted and she tried to fight, but she was powerless against the four of them. She felt them roughly stripping her from the waist down, and she threw her arms into whatever target they could find, until she was restrained. And then came the most excruciating pain she could imagine, and she tried so hard to scream through the tongue in her mouth. She kicked but he was too heavy, she pushed but they were too strong. The tongue left her mouth and was quickly replaced by another one, as her head fell back. She felt herself being turned onto her side, still in extreme pain, and then she felt another pain, just as sharp and terrible, around the other side. Nails tore down her skin and her dress was ripped from her back, and teeth found her bare shoulders. One cock pulled out of her, only to be replaced by the thin knifelike pushing of fingers, and teeth now attacked her thighs. The nails on her back subsided, and a tongue made its way down her spine to the top of her crack, and the second cock finally left, as fingers made their way inside there too. Sucking lovebites, savage scratches and fearsome gnawings persisted all over her, until the fingers pulled out, the nails gave way and the teeth unclamped themselves, and the four goths sat back in exhaustion. There she lay, still on the laps of the women, her dress ripped, her knickers pulled off and bloody and her dignity and strength all gone.
For what seemed like an age she lay, until strength returned to her body, and he was able to pick herself up and run from the cinema. No one noticed.
She ran and locked herself in a toilet and cried. The show ended and women came in, used, flushed and left. Then there was silence, and she cried, and cried, and cried.
When Trixie woke up it was dark. It didn't hurt any more, she just felt… nothing. She got up, rearranging her knickers and dress to look half decent, but they weren't so bad. Not so bad at all.
She came out of the toilet and looked at the exit. She didn't feel like going yet. She went back into the auditorium. She was going to miss it. She didn't want to leave.
The building was being abandoned. It was old and small, and no one wanted it. It could, Trixie thought, be hers now. Hers to use. Hers to love. Hers to open every night in secret to a small audience of devout lovers who saw the show for what it really was.
No more last show. Every night the last show.
In time, at her anonymous encouragement, actors came to her old cinema, bringing with them the one show that a place like that could present. A story of love and betrayal, of life and death, of man's fall from grace, a sensual daydream, an erotic nightmare.
And Trixie was there before every show, welcoming the audience to her old auditorium, then going to the back row, to relive and to cry over the last night of her life, and then returning to the stage in quiet tears afterwards to end the show.
And the four goths, the four who had raped her that night, she sometimes saw them, on stage behind the actors, maybe living old unfulfilled dreams, maybe just suffering in some endless purgatory. Their flesh over time became paler, their hair longer and more matted and unkempt, their clothes older and dirtier.
She almost felt like they were there sometimes, pulling at her dress, pulling it off, touching her, groping her. But it never came to that. It only hurt her inside.
They were nothing to her now, only phantoms, and she was just Trixie, forever there, lost in the last show.