"Where's my costar?" Her voice rings throughout the room, so weak and yet so deafening.
"Where's my costar?!" She's desperate now and even though she's projected across a screen, he can feel the panic-the fear-radiating from her body. He watches intently, a nameless sensation rushing through his body when her wrists are bound with leather.
His eyes reabsorb her features into his memory, his imagination adds color to the noire image; he can see her so clearly now, as if she were directly in front of him. The woman's skin is the color of cream, her hair so blonde it's almost white, with a jaw shaped from the smoothest of marble and lips so full and ready to please.
Elsa Mars is a goddess; a sensual fantasy draped in black lace, a woman to be desired and used by countless men to reach sexual nirvana. She is a woman graced with insurmountable beauty and who uses it to prostitute herself to a camera. She is impure, a filthy goddamn whore and he hates her for it. He hates her and every other woman who has been created in the same mold, but she is the one he chose.
She is his star.
The roar of a chainsaw finally brought to life overtakes the room, consuming his senses and forcing him to watch as it enters the screen.
"There's your costar," he sneers, his lips parting and forming an animalistic smile.
Her blood, which he remembers being such a vibrant red, hits every surface of the room. Specks of dark grey clash against her snow white skin and he thinks that, in all his life, this is the most erotic thing he's ever encountered. To watch this beautiful woman, who had been so confident in herself, have something quite literally torn away from her makes his blood boil in the most delightful way. To hear her scream and see nothing but raw, unadulterated agony marring her features.
"You deserved it, you miserable slut," he growls, ending the tape in his fury. He cannot bear to watch it, not after he's learned what's become of her. Elsa Mars deserved to rot on that bed, to be left a deformed freak. Not to become the star of Friday night television, and to be adored by millions of people who know nothing of her true self.
The doctor had been in the asylums disaster of a library searching for an issue of National Geographic-which in his opinion is the only thing of any substance in this facility-to read in his down time. He was shocked to find Pepper, Briarcliff's resident pinhead, sitting on the floor with a variety of magazines scattered about. In that moment, though, the only one that caught his attention was clutched to the girl's chest, almost as if she thought it were a real person.
"What do you have there?" Arden inquired, moving to crouch down in front of her. She'd smiled widely, her eyes bright as she held the magazine out for him to see.
"Elsa!" She'd exclaimed as he took the issue of LIFE into his hands, his eyes narrowing at once. There she was, plastered across the cover in black and white, declared the queen of Friday nights.
She was his star.
And up until that point, he had always believed that that's all she would ever be.