Hold Me Never (Holding Never), page 11
With a violent shudder, he turns stiffly away from me. Silently, he climbs onto the bed where the Empress is waiting, her eyes glinting coldly in the dark.
She lies on her back and spreads her legs. “Service me, Owen.”
He kneels and positions his erection between her legs. Twisting his head to look at me, he slams into her. He thrusts hard into the Empress, staring into my unblinking, unfeeling eyes all the time. I no longer feel anything. No fear, no shock, no anger. I just feel dead and used.
Owen's eyes never leave me. They show no pain, no pity, no pride as his body provides the Empress with the pain and pleasure she craves. She drinks from him, sucking his cock and the blood from the deep wounds on his body. Even as she feeds on him, he keeps his vacant eyes on me.
The shadows move and darken, spreading and bleeding across the walls as the candles burn out one by one. Owen services the Empress the whole night. Her moans and shrieks fade as the dawn arrives. His back is a raw, bloody mess, but still the Empress continues marking him, her nails making deep gashes in his flesh as she sinks her cruel, ravenous claws into him, taking him deep and hard.
With one final scream, she finally disengages from him. She shoves him away and rolls to her side, panting, tendrils of black hair plastered to her face.
Owen staggers back, reeling into a statue. His cock instantly deflates, as if he has maintained his erection by sheer force of will. His tensed muscles loosen and slump, his body becoming boneless, like his life, his lust, his blood have all been sucked out of him, leaving him an empty shell reeling and rattling around the room.
His flailing hand finds a candle and the pain from the blood red flame seems to awaken his senses. He manages to regain his balance just as he is about to take a rocking statue down with him. With heavy thuds, the statue and Owen both sway back into position. Owen slides to the ground on his knees. He blinks slowly, and shakes himself as if waking from a dream, a nightmare. He wraps his arms tightly around himself as his body starts to spasm uncontrollably.
Owen seems to be going into shock, shaking violently as he collapses to the floor.
I watch helplessly, my eyes darting to the Empress. Surely she would do something. She wouldn't leave him to die. Would she?
“Ah...” I stutter. “Owen...”
The Empress is lying on her bed, her eyes closed with a smile on her face. She has used him and he can drop dead right now for all she cares.
I find my voice. “Hey, hey! Owen!”
The Empress has gotten up from the bed and walked to a silver door at the far corner of the room. Humming, she closes the door behind her and I hear the sound of water.
“Owen!” I hiss urgently. Owen is shivering and shaking even more violently now. A thin trickle of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth.
Oh God, there is no way I can watch him die. After all the horrors I have been forced to witness, I don't want to bear witness to yet another one.
“Owen! You...look at me! Open your eyes! Owen!”
His eyes float over to me before rolling back. “No, no, Owen, stay with me!” I urge in a fierce whisper. “Come on, fight! You're a fighter, right? Fight, for yourself!”
His eyes close, and his fists grind into the floor. He seems to have heard me. His muscles jump and twitch as he strains against his body's reaction. But no one can help him. Just like no one can help me. The excruciating shame, revulsion and hatred is directed inward, towards the very pit of his soul.
His body had been used, against his will, for pleasure he doesn't wish to feel. Just like mine.
The numb, seething shame and hate that I had felt in the immediate aftermath of what he did to me was not directed at him. Not even at the Empress. It was at myself.
This is a fight that Owen has to fight on his own, alone.
No one can fight his demons for him.
And after what he has done, the demons preying on him, closing in on him must be way more horrifying and unforgiving than those dwelling in my soul and endlessly torturing my mind.
I continue calling out to him, calling his name. After the darkest, longest time, his shivers gradually subside, and his eyes start to focus. Gasping for breath, like he has just surfaced from a shadowy underwater world, he blinks up at me, his emerald eyes blurry and wet. He lets out an anguished yell and scrabbles backwards, like he can't get away from me fast enough.
Maybe I look like a ghost. Or a demon.
In his blind panic, Owen knocks over a chair and sends a vase of dead, dried flowers crashing to the floor. Reeling round, he catches a two-headed statue before it topples and grabs the dripping black candle. The hot wax drips onto his hand, but he doesn't seem to feel it.
He scrambles to his feet just as the Empress strides out of the bathroom. She has let her hair down and her naked body is shining with a film of pungent oil.
Tilting her head to the side, she regards us with a finger on her chin. Yawning, she sighs, “We had fun, didn't we?”
When Owen backs away from the bed, she sniggers, “Does my bed repulse you so, Slave? You will learn to love it. Love me. Love me with that spectacular cock of yours. I haven't been so satisfied for a long time now. I think I'll keep you. For now.”
With a languid, satisfied smile, she presses a button at the side of her bed.
A beep sounds. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Take the Slave and the Siren away,” she barks into the speaker. “Send them back to their cells. Don't kill them—” she adds as an afterthought. “Yet.”
Turning around, she squints at Owen and me critically, like she is assessing the condition of our broken minds and bodies.
With a huff, she jabs the button again. “And send Dr. Rolin up to my chamber. With the Serum.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wake up in my cell, on my mattress. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the naked bulb buzzing overhead, I push myself up and stare groggily around. Those tiny brown cloths are back around my breasts and hips, protecting my modesty in the most immodest way.
My head is pounding madly, like there's something trying to tear out of my skull. A fractured memory perhaps.
The cell is completely empty and silent. I turn to look at Hani's empty mattress in the corner. There is a tray of food at the door. One tray. Not two.
I drag the tray and myself to the corner of Hani's mattress and close my eyes. When did I last see her? It was in the Great Hall. With all that wine and blood and...sex. The night, that nightmarish night, seems so recent yet so distant. I seem to have lost track of time. Was it just last night, or many nights ago?
There was blood. I can remember the blood, lots of it. And there was sex. With a dead man.
Flickering images of leering lips, heaving breasts, scarred backs, grasping hands, probing tongues and fingers, erect penises flash in rapid succession behind my eyelids. The images are stark, raw, and too real to be imagined. I clutch my head between my hands, squeezing my eyes shut.
I know something happened after we left the Great Hall. But what? Why can't I seem to remember?
I stare down at the red bite mark on the inside of my thigh. And in that moment, everything comes rushing back, the memories of the night before surging through my mind in a numbing, terrifying wave.
I double over and retch violently.
I see those black candles, the gruesome statues, the Empress on the bed, Owen...I see their writhing, fornicating bodies, thrusting and undulating in torment and ecstasy.
That ugly throbbing mark on my thigh—he left his mark on me, as a reminder of what he did to me. He used me to get himself hard for the Empress. He fucked me with his tongue, and he would have fucked me with his cock as well, if the Empress hadn't forbidden him to touch me with what was hers.
He would have taken me, right there and then, if not for the threat hanging over his head. Taken my virginity, for himself, against my will. Deflowered and defiled me forever.
I remember how he collapsed after satisfying the Empress. He had been taken and broken as well. And he would do the very same thing to me, take me and break me. I pity him, and I despise him.
I remember Dr. Rolin coming into the Empress's chambers with a metal briefcase. The doctor had walked up to me without a word and released me from the clamps and restraints. My eyes could close at last, but instead of shutting out the horrors of the night, I'd just kept on staring at the doctor. I knew that he wasn't here to save me. When he snapped his silver briefcase open and extracted a large syringe, I had stared at the transparent liquid in morbid, resigned fascination and anticipation. If I'm lucky enough, that would be a fatal dose. I remember Dr. Rolin sliding the needle into my arm, and pushing the plunger. For a while, I felt nothing. Then everything became kind of hazy, like a thick fog had just rolled into the room. The last thing I recall seeing is the doctor bending over Owen with a spurting syringe in his hand. As he lowered the needle to Owen's arm, the room had abruptly spun upside down and everything went black.
How much time has passed since then?
Is Owen back in his cell, like me, or is he dead?
What about...Hani, and the blond girl?
Where are they now?
Are they still alive?
I miss her. The cell feels so empty and desolate without her. I wish I could talk to her, have her listen to my fears and regrets, have her hold my hand and wake me from my nightmares. I feel so, so alone.
“Hani...” I whisper her name, as I grip the corner of her crumpled blanket. I last saw her in the Great Hall, dressed in red gossamer, marked as a virgin. I press the heel of my palms to my temples to stem the throbbing pain at the memory. The Emperor chose her and the other girl, and ordered them brought to his chambers.
The blackness behind my eyelids pulse blood red as I fall forward to the cold floor. Wrenching sobs explode from me as I curl into a ball. I don't try to stop my tears or muffle my cries. There is no one to see me, no one to hear me. I cry, long and hard, the tears scalding my eyes and my face. I cry until I am utterly, completely spent. Empty. Exhausted.
Don't cry.
Hani's words echo ceaselessly in my mind. I cling on to my splintering memories of her. Her soft voice. Her strange, warbling song. Her quiet stoicism. Her purity and humanity. I will never see her again. Even if she hasn't been killed...
The thought of her mutilated and maimed and forced into a gray serving uniform cuts me like a knife. Which is worse? Being tortured and killed, or being tortured forever?
Very slowly, I push myself up on my shaking arms. I have cried long enough, long and hard enough for me to deplete my tears and my emotions.
I look down at the tray of food and simply lean against the wall and start eating. I swallow without tasting. I eat just to fill the gnawing emptiness in my stomach and my soul.
Numbly, I push the empty tray away and pull Hani's blanket over my body. Even though I try to fight the memories, they invade every corner of my mind, the images jumping and flashing before me.
I shake away the image of the Empress's contorted face and her pale naked body only to see Owen's face looming in front of me. His expression is stony, his eyes dark and tortured. I can still feel his rough hands on my thighs, forcing me wide open. I hug myself, but even the feel of my own hands on my bare skin makes me wince. I feel so violated, so defiled, so vile. Why should he drag me down with him? The selfish bastard!
“No!” I jerk upright, my fists tightly clenched. I know that I may not have long to live. My life may be taken at any time at the Emperor or Empress's whim and fancy. I have no control over that. But my body, my heart and my virginity is still mine, mine to give away so that the Emperor can never have it.
Hani's virginity has been taken away from her by force. In the same way that Owen has taken what he wants from me by force. Forcing his mouth on me, forcing his erection with his eyes raking my naked body, the taste of me lingering on his tongue.
For however short a time that I still live, my body, my virginity, my pleasure...is mine. I will not let the Emperor or anyone else take that from me.
It is mine.
Mine to give. Mine to lose.
My skin starts to tingle and the chill fades from my body as I recall that fleeting kiss I shared with Jaxon. He held me like I was precious to him. His touch was searing, but gentle. His kiss deep, tender, passionate. Not rough and forceful, relentless and heedless to my protests and tears. Jaxon wanted me, but not against my will. I felt cherished—and safe, in his arms.
The last place I should feel safe in.
“Jaxon,” I say in a broken whisper. “You. I want it...to be you.”
I stare at the door, willing it to open, willing Jaxon to come to me, to come for me.
Quietly, I rock myself and start to hum. The warbling tune that escapes from between my pursed lips is the same tune that Hani had hummed the last time we were together in this cell.
I suddenly recognize the tune.
Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you...Happy Birthday to...Zoey, Happy Birthday to...me.
At the end of my birthday song, I start and hiccup a laugh, or a sob.
Is it...could it be...my birthday today?
My eighteenth birthday.
Who'd have thought.
I think of Emilia and the rest of the girls back at the factory. I think of Hani and the blond girl. They may be alive or they may be dead. No one knows. I may still be alive now, but I may be dead tomorrow.
It may be my birthday today, but it may be my last birthday.
With a deep, steadying breath, I get up and put the tray away. Very carefully, I fold Hani's blanket and smooth it at the top of her mattress. I pat down her mattress, smoothing away the creases and dusting away bits of crumbs and dirt. Turning back to my own mattress, I do the same to neaten up my own corner.
When I finish, I stand with my back against the door and look at her neat, empty mattress for a long time.
If I have to die, then so be it. That is not what I want, but I can't help that.
But before I die, there is something, someone that I want. That will be my birthday present to myself. I will give myself this, if it is the last thing I do.
I smile through fresh tears. He has lied for me. Now it is my turn.
Funny how the absolute sense of loss and hopelessness can trigger a kind of reckless resolve. When you feel that you have nothing else to lose, you actually gain something. A different perspective, a wild abandon. And you draw upon your last reserves of bravado.
In truth, I still have something to lose, and I intend to lose that pretty quickly. But on my terms.
When I finally hear the beep followed by the creaking, whirring sound at my back, I step away and turn around slowly. My eyes are dry and clear.
Mam Mallisa stands at the door, dressed in what looks like a leotard with sequins. She regards me for an instant, with a brief flicker of concern in her eyes. I squint at her, and her expression hardens. I exhale sharply as she crooks a finger at me. I must have misread her expression. That was contempt, not concern.
I square my shoulders and walk out of my cell to find the other girls already moving warily along the corridor towards the stairs in single file.
“Dance lesson,” Mam Mallisa trills as she shoves her way towards the head of the line. “Today, I shall be teaching you girls a new dance. It is a very exotic, sensual dance. You don't have much time to master the steps, so please pay attention and concentrate. You will be measured for your costumes later. Now...” she says in a happy, lilting voice and flounces up the steps. “Shall we dance?”
We pass the Grooming Room, which is not lit up like a circus for once. The Grooming Room is dark and quiet, with no Matrons mopping and washing and getting everything ready for grooming. With impatient commands from Mam Mallisa, we are herded into that industrial sized lift once more. I force my eyes to the control panel and figure out that there are as many floors underground as there are above ground. As above, so below. It makes me wonder what is on the top floor. Whose cell or chamber is up there?
The lift door opens at the floor just below the ground floor. Mam Mallisa strides out into a spacious mirrored room and snaps on the fluorescent lights. Her leotard shimmers and throws rainbow colored light into our eyes. But all the sequins and shimmer in the world cannot mask her figure, or lack thereof. She is so thin that she has no curves at all. Without her puffy sleeves and skirts, her arms and legs are like sticks. She moves with practiced, precise steps, but without her high heels, she cuts a wizened, weak figure. Under her thick makeup, I can see that her complexion is the color of ash. Her hair has been dyed pink today, to match her lipstick. I can't help but wonder who or what the real Mam Mallisa is. Who is she when all these bright paints and dyes have been removed? What does she look like? Unrecognizable to be sure.
Is she even alive?
Her shrill voice cuts into my thoughts. “Get into your starting positions, and follow me. Watch and learn. And move in time to the music, please.”
Everyone starts to dance—or rather, simply mimic the movements of Mam Mallisa. The dance involves a lot of kneeling, thrusting out our chests, gyrating our hips and spreading our legs. I have no doubt what our costumes will look like. The fabric will be non-existent and the holes will be loud and gaping. Hardly anything will be left to the imagination. Less is more. Lewd is in.
“Now, from the top. Five, six, seven, eight...” she shouts.
I go through the motions stupidly, refusing to look at my reflection. This is not a dance. Dancing is poetry, a beauty to behold, a gift from the dancer to the audience. But I am not giving anything. The audience that we will be dancing for deserves nothing. I will give nothing of myself to them.
