Olivia's mind was spinning. Just yesterday her band was preforming in one of those early morning alcoholic breakfast places where they play lofi and jazz music where they worked on their friend Charlie's sudden found expertise. He'd kept this from them for so long. Now here she was where they play no music and the sound of screams send jolts of pain in her body like ghosts.
The music is what held her. The sounds of meaning are what kept her sane. Now here, in this hour, she feels as though she's slipped from the tallest of towers further and further down in an abyss where she can only hope she'll find the ground.
Across from her, chained to the wall in her same fashion, is Jo Wilson. Two of the five people in the room. The lights are pale and blue. The air is cold. Sadness is the ultimate God here. Woeful bliss doth kiss the temple in the frost. Unfortunately she's the only one awake. Parties with her close intimate friends allowed them to study themselves of different substances. Test their own limits. She has built up a tolerance for all kinds of things.
It felt like a bad night. Only, Mo wasn't there to kiss her awake. Oh, at the feeling of her hands. The way they made their way up Oliva's arm. The smell of cinnamon and sweet sticky vanilla frosting on her tongue. These memories fade like the shattering of glass as a heavy door rolls shut with a hard thud followed by the click clacking of a locking system so intricate and heavy.
Someone's coming and they've left no way out. Odd of her to think. She's bound but places like this are notorious to test people. She's heard of the depth of Hollywood and those who run things behind the scenes. She's met and had conversations with celebrities who were offered the billionairs choice. They assured her it was honestly something she wanted to look away from.
Soon she would end up just like her dear friend, Gabbie was happy at one point but in the recent year things changed. She was hyper active. Vigilant. And constantly worrisome. As was her boyfriend. The two of them went from cute puppy dogs to vicious dalmatians seemingly overnight. Olivia should have known something strange was amidst. Something bad.
It's this realization that has her cushioned for the next big blow. Brian was the one walking through the door. Hermione Granger's voice echoed in her head while her mouth stayed silent, "YOU FOWL LOATHSOME EVIL LITTLE COCKROACH!"
A small smile even formed on her lips when she imagine Wen pretending to be Ronald Weasley as they smoke a blunt in his car,"HERMIONE NO! He's not worth it."
"Am I mistaken?" He asks with wide crazy eyes, "You aren't happy to see me are you?"
She laughs and tips her head down allowing her hair to fall over her bare shoulders, "Death is close. So I will smile. It is not something I fear. Rather I celebrate it."
"You poets. So bazaar. You won't be dying anytime soon." Something in the way he said it assured her that it wasn't something to get excited about.
Another thing to not get excited about is the length of the drive for Kendall. He's bound with a red cloth, hands folded in his lap. The road bumps and he's thrown from faulty preparation. He can't get a good grip on the leather of the seats and he knows he's not alone. About the third time that he slips James decides to brace them both with one of his strong thick thighs. There's a cooling sensation in the press. It's hot as fuck out here and usually this would be unwelcome but something in the touch steadied Kendall.
Then the sound of rushing water threw them all off. They're coming to a stop. A conversation is taking place. What language is that? Oh, it's hard to say. Everything is so muffled. The blindfolds are slipped off and reveal palm trees, a small waterfall, and the guards outside the bed of the truck. Everything inside the bed of the truck is so dull in it's yellow and brown earth tones.
Perhaps they were being led into a trap. But why? What's the purpose when they're already consumed by the weight of being someone else's property. Wasn't Hunt a good guy? How can Kendall decide he's not after all that time practicing their skills together. They were trauma surgeons. Well, Owen was a trauma sergeon. His job is to help people. So why the sudden shift? Kendall is still in training. He's a poet. A words kind of man. What does that have to do with healing? Why did Hunt choose him?
Then discard him like trash.
The female guard approached him and pulled him into a standing position. Her nametag reads, "Stone."
Who is stone? Is that her name or is that the name of the person who owns them now?
As he's led out she says very sweetly, "Watch your step. The bottom one is faulty."
James comes right behind him. Logan and Camille, however, still remain bound and gagged as the engine roars to life and the vehicle continues on throughout the path through a safari revealing what appears to be an abandoned water park. The two boys share a glance of confusion and follow the guards into the open doorway to be greeted by people you and I aren't ready to know about.
I'll tell you about Carlos though. Someone who's walking around on a bad leg, alone in the narrow corridors of run down leaky pluming and the fowl scent of rust. He's bleeding from his left hand and his right peck. There's a large shard of glass sticking out of his thigh and he's cut on his back in several spots. The blood has darkened his jean jacket and his red tanktop was once white.
There's no desire in him to dance at all. Where did it go?
There's always pain in life. Yesterday was horrible and today might be better but self love is being able to love on both days. He doesn't want anyone to touch him anymore. Ever. They never wanted to any way. When they did they never saw him. He was just another body. He hurt. Bad. He knows he can't patch these wounds alone but he doesn't even care if he dies today.
An eerie creek echoes behind him and he doesn't even turn around. He doesn't stop. He doesn't get faster. He just walks. That's all he really wants to do right now. The steady pace. The easy left and then right. The breathing.
Only this thing behind him, creeping ever so slowly, says something that does concern him deeply.
"I thought they stopped feeding me." It sounded young. Like high-school, young.
He's right to think that because when Carlos turns around he's met with the worrisome, deranged, sixteen year old Disney channel star Kevin Quinn. Pale translucent skin. Bright purple veins. Eyes that scream, 'someone kill me'. And Carlos is gifted the feeling of being very important somehow.