Six Years After Capture
Rachel's Age: 14 Years Old
It's been a long time since I been a slave to blood lust. These days, I'm practically civil. But here I stand with a perfectly un-bleedin' man in front of me, and my hands start shakin' in anticipation of what I'm 'bout to do to him. I lick my lips. He sees it.
"Look," he starts in, strugglin' against the ropes. "I'm not gonna say anything, okay? I'm a lot of things, but I'm no snitch, so you can just forget it!"
I kneel down so we're eye-to-eye and fix him with my darkest glare. "Wouldn't you know, everyone says that? They all seem to think if they put up a strong front, it gives the interrogator second thoughts 'bout how far they're willin' to go for what they want. But guess what, Morph? I rape. And kill. And pillage and plunder. It's what I do. What I was born to do." I hold up the pliers for him to see. "There ain't a line I won't cross. And you, yer tied to a chair. I'm gonna do whatever I want to you and there's nothin' you can do about it. You know it. I know it. So let's cut the bullshit, shall we?"
His adam apple bobs in his throat and fear is written on every corner of his face. Well, at least he's past the fake poker face. Always the first step. "Now I'm guessin' this is your first time in a chair. This yer first time, Morph?" His head stays still but his eyes dart down at his predicament. "Let me lay out for you how this is gonna work. You and me are about to do a lil' dance that ends when you decide yer tired of dancin' and you wanna start signin'.
Rachel. He called me Rachel. It's funny just how much you can tell by a name.
At first, after he captured me, he didn't call me anything. He'd instruct me to sit in a chair by pointing at it, or tell me I did something wrong by smacking me on the back of the head. I always thought this was his way of telling me I wasn't worth noticing. Then, he started calling me "you". As in "You, fetch my steak" or "Get outta my way, you!" I was suddenly worth noticing, but in much the same way you notice an annoying cat. After a while, I became "Girl", which was softer than "you" but still not exactly personal. Then, he named me "pup". That was a term of endearment—or at least, the closest thing to it that Victor could muster. Shortly after I developed boobs he named me "Red". This was obviously a reference to my hair color but I also thought it was an acknowledgement of my budding sexuality, and the fact that I was a little more than some kid now.
But this was very different. He actually called me by my real name—not a nickname or a metaphor or an improper noun. He just acknowledged, consciously or subconsciously, who I actually am. What does that make us now? Equals? Teammates? Friends? Something more?
I look at the clock. We drove for days, with our house in our rear view mirror, and no matter how many times I asked him, he wouldn't tell me where we were going. Then we arrived at this abandoned warehouse. He killed the engine, told me to sit still and quiet, and disappeared inside without another word of explanation. And that was more than half an hour ago. Could he be in trouble? Well, after what we've been through in the past few days, what's the worst he would do to me?
Throwing caution to the wind, I step out of the car and into the building, quiet as a mouse, just as he taught me. Three-inch-thick steel doors close thickly but silently. The second I turn around, however, I regret my decision. Victor is crouched low, a huge machete in his hand and a devilish, sick grin on his face. There are several tools strewn around his feet, including a pair of pliers, a bone saw, and a needle. All of them are covered in blood. Slumped on the floor in front of him, a man lies mangled, with half of his face missing and his left leg amputated. All his fingernails are bleeding. He cries out to me for help but with his tongue cut out, he can only moan in my general direction. Victor punches him, knocking him unconscious, and runs up to me. He grabs my arm with a vice-like grip that sends searing pain from my elbow to my shoulder and shoves me outside.
"What part of 'still and quiet' don't ya get?" he yells.
"W-w-wha—" I studder, my breath taken away by the sight of the tortured man.
He throws me over his shoulder and dumps me inside the Hummer. When he speaks, his voice is an all-too-familiar low, threatening growl, "Don't. You. Move."
Well, that was a strike out.
Morph's one eye stares up at me all blank and lifeless. I wipe my hands but there ain't much I can do 'bout the blood all over my front. I feel like my old self again. The past forty minutes were gruesome and wicked. And I loved every second of it. I take a deep breath, tryin' to put on my best reformed-version-of-Victor-face and step outside.
As I expected, she's glarin' at me. I start the car, hopin' to at least get a mile or two down the road 'fore she jumps all over me. No such luck.
"What was the purpose of that?" she shouts. "Did you just feel the need to hear someone scream?"
I rub the ear closest to her, which is ringin'. "Well, if I did, I guess mission accomplished, huh?"
Her glare goes from hot to cold in a second. She plops down in her seat, buckles her seatbelt, and crosses her arms hard, starin' straight ahead.
I start what I'm guessin' is one helluva long drive. She must realize the guilt trip isn't gonna work on me, 'cause she switches tactics. She breathes in and lowers her voice. "Did you just want information? Because I could've tried reading his mind."
"Look, that's how I deal with shit. I'm sorry you had ta see it but I told you to stay in the damn car." She sighs and stares out the window. "Anyway," I continue, "don't weep for that bastard. He's the lowest form of scum. He sold you out for shillings."
Her face changes. "Me? What did he want with me?"
"Not him, Sinister. You know who Sinister is, don't you?"
She nods, still lookin' forward. "He's the one that was obsessed with my paren—" She breaks off, and an awkward silence fills up the car. Come to think of it, she's never mentioned her folks once since the day I off'd 'em. Somethin' very uncomfortable swirls in the pit of my stomach. "So what does Sinister want with me?
To clone you. Experiment on you. Cause you intense physical and emotional pain. Brainwash you. Probably rape you, too. "Yeah, I'm not touchin' that one with a ten-foot pole, Red. 'Sides, he's not gonna touch you. Not while I've got breath in my lungs."
The motel room is dark. It smells slightly like mold and other unpleasant things. Victor closes the door, throws his leather jacket on the bed, and goes straight to the bathroom. I hear shower water running, but he doesn't turn on the light. Sometimes he forgets that I don't see in the dark like he can. My hands search around the door until they find the light switch. Light floods the little room and I almost wish I hadn't turned it on.
Tattered, pale pink curtains frame the only window. The carpet is dark green and stained in multiple places. On the single bed lies a thin, bright orange blanket with a sickening paisley pattern. I immediately recognize the place from Victor's memories. In fact, he's been here many times before; the last time was when he'd left me. He killed a prostitute in this very room.
Victor comes out of the bathroom, wearing only his jeans and sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. Water drips from his hair onto his bare feet and he seems lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. Then he looks at me. He seems to notice my discomfort for the first time.
"Wanna wash up? Might calm yer nerves."
I shake my head. "I'm not the one covered in blood. I really just want to go to sleep." He smiles at my quip with a nod, then pulls back the comforter. I crawl into the bed and he tucks the sheets around me.
"I'm gettin' us some food," he says, picking up his shirt. "Be back in a few."
"Wait!" I call. He turns back to me with a look of concern. "Please don't go," I beg. "Not tonight. We can get food first thing in the morning, can't we? I—I just don't want to be alone tonight."
Thinking over my plea, he drops the shirt and turns off the light. He lies in the bed to my right. After a really long silence, I roll over to face him and watch his still profile. I'm in a place that gives me chills and revolts me to my very core, but somehow lying here in the dark with Victor, I feel strangely safe. Despite all his intensity and brooding, I know he'd do anything to protect me. I also know he killed my parents and I should hate him for it. But I don't. All I fell toward him is absolute gratitude for saving my life. Inching closer to him, I put my hand on his chest. A faint, almost unnoticeable smirk tweaks the corner of his lips and I decide to once again ignore my better judgment, hoping it goes much better than last time.
I kiss his cheek. It's a soft, sweet kind of kiss but certainly not a peck, with my mouth just slightly open. He turns to me with a frown. "You wanna explain to me what that's for?" he asks.
"I owe you my life. I figure I should start paying my debt." I kiss his lips this time, a fuller kiss, one with lots of passion and meaning behind it, and at first, he reciprocates. Then he places each of his hands on my arms and pushes me back a little.
"No, Rachel," is all he says.
"But," I stammer, "but I thought—"
"Whatever you thought, you were wrong." His tone is sharp. "Now go to sleep. Been a long day, and yer right; we both could do with some sleep."
I can't believe my ears. Victor, of all people, is refusing me? "I'm not a child anymore. I've made this decision with a clear head, and it's my choice to make."
"Rachel, girl, of all the people in the world you could give this too—"
"I know who you are, Victor. Like I said, I'm not a kid. I know all the horrible, gross, evil stuff about you—"
"Well, when you put it that way—" he grumbles.
"—and I know the good stuff about you, too. Stuff that I don't think you even know. Like how you'll take every kind of pain to protect me. Or the fact that you avoid any physical contact with me, even though you're completely attracted to me and you've gone without sex far longer than you've ever gone before in your life, because you don't trust yourself to not give into your inner desire to—"
"Yeah, I'll admit you make me hot and bothered. 'Course you do. But I'm not gonna be the one that takes this from you. Not your first time, not tonight, and not here."
As if to support his argument, bed creaking and moaning start sounding from the room next door. I groan. In my heart, I know he's right. "Fine," I concede. "Not tonight, not here, but I have decided that I want you to be my first time, and I'm not going to wait quietly on you forever. Think about that." I roll back over sulkily.
He lies in stunned silence for a few minutes. Then I hear him sit up, cross the room, throw some water on his face, pull on some clothes, and leave the room.
Strike two.