Behind The Hands That Kill

EIGHT

The strong smell of perfume wakes me, and when I open my eyes I see that woman from before again, dressed in the tight bodysuit that zips all the way up her throat, standing in the room with me.

“Good. You’re awake,” she says. “We should get started.”

I realize that I’m lying on a bed; a pillow has even been tucked under my head. My bonds have been cut; the gag has been removed from my mouth.

“Get started with what?” I ask, weakly.

The woman smiles carefully at me. I glimpse a knife beside her on a vanity next to various sorts of makeup, hair styling items, and other such things; four bright lights, two on each side of the vanity mirror, light up the small room that has little else in it worthy of noting.

Of course, of all the things in her reach she could take into her hand, she chooses the knife and comes toward me.

Instinctively I try to leap off the bed and run for the closed door, but my legs collapse beneath me, and a familiar white-hot pain sears through my tailbone and hips; the buzzing sound of the cattle prod zips through my ears. I crash onto the floor; my eyes are clenched tight as the pain works its way through my stiffened body. Only after my muscles begin to ease and soften again do I hear the second set of footsteps behind me as whoever had been in the room with us backs away.

The woman crouches in front of me as I lie on the floor, trying to catch my breath.

“What I plan to do to you,” she warns in an eerily calm voice, “will be much worse than a little shock.”

“W-What are you going t-to do?” I stutter, as I still haven’t gained back the full ability to speak after that last shock.

I feel her fingers moving through my hair, and I look up at her looming over me.

“I’m going to finish what I started so long ago with Victor Faust.”

Her words, though vague and few, inject several extra beats in my heart.

She raises the knife to me, letting the shiny silver blade flash in front of my eyes. “Now, will you be cooperating, or will you be making this more difficult for me, and in turn, yourself?”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, settling with cooperation.

“For now,” she says, stands, and then reaches out a hand to me, “I want you to listen.”

Reluctantly I accept her hand and she pulls me to my feet.

“And later?” I ask, uneasy.

She walks back over to the brightly-lit vanity, her back to me, but I don’t forget about the other person in the room.

The woman, clearly in charge, doesn’t look at me when she answers, “That will also depend on Victor Faust—everything that happens here tonight will depend on the man on the other side of that speaker”—she turns only her head, slowly, to see me now—“the man you think loves you enough to save your life.”

“He does,” I say immediately, regretting it afterwards. This isn’t the time to be arguing with a woman who I feel like I know can never be reasoned with.

She smiles, and runs the knife blade smoothly between her thumb and index finger.

“We’ll see,” she says. Then she pats the empty chair in front of the vanity. “Come and have a seat.”

I glance behind me, finally seeing a man standing next to the door with the cattle prod clutched in his hand. There are no windows in this room, just that solitary door; and judging by the footsteps I hear outside in the hallway, even if I could take these two down, I probably wouldn’t get far once I left the room. But more importantly, I wouldn’t leave Victor in this place, and I have no idea where he is; for all I know, he might not even be here. All I have of him is his voice funneling through the speakers on a laptop.

This can’t be the end of us, Victor…it can’t be the end of everything.

But I feel like it is. I feel it deep in my soul—this is the end. I’ve been in countless life or death predicaments, even before I met Victor, but this one…this one I know in my heart isn’t going to end the way all the others did. Is this what it feels like when a person knows she’s about to die? They say you always know, that you just feel it, that your time is short.

Victor feels it. I think maybe that’s why I’m so convinced of it myself. If he has no hope of getting us out of this alive, then what’s left to hope for?

I wish I could talk to him, just one last time.

I don’t care that he wanted me to…stop loving him. I don’t care. I’m pissed, and I’m hurt that he’d give up on us like that, but I still love him. I understand him. And I forgive him. I forgive him because I understand him like no one else can.

Turning my ear toward the speaker, I take a deep breath and try to mentally prepare myself for everything else that’s about to happen. For what this crazy woman is going to do to me. For how many more times that cattle prod will shock the hell out of me. For whatever else I might hear Victor tell Apollo. For how I’m going to die—instinct tells me it won’t be quick. For a brief moment I think of Fredrik, and Niklas, and Nora, and James; for a longer moment I think of Dina. I feel guilty for what she’ll go through when notified of my death. It hurts my heart to imagine her sitting there on her faded orange sofa that smells like potpourri, crying into her hands.

Many minutes pass, and all I can hear coming from the speaker are noises from Victor, but no voices: him shuffling around inside the cell; grunting and growling and yelling indecipherable words under his breath; the squeaking of the skin on his palms rubbing against the fixed bars of his cage; his pants legs brushing as he paces. And all the while I listen, wishing I could reach out to him to say something to console us both, this woman is, of all things, fixing my makeup and hair.

“What’s the point of this?” I ask her.

“You’ll see,” she tells me, and then places the tip of an eyebrow liner pencil to my left eyebrow.

“It’s a shame about your hair,” she adds.

I don’t say anything in response, and she continues with her work. I continue to listen, like she told me she wanted me to do, but for a long time all I hear is more of the same from Victor. Secretly I glimpse the knife on the vanity, out of my reach but easy enough to get to if I wanted. But ‘easy’ is what worries me; these people were smart enough to put Victor, of all people, where he is now, so I’m confident that ‘easy’, in this case, is just an illusion.

After another five minutes or so, and still nothing has changed, I try to get the woman to talk.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Do you really care what my name is?” she says, and I feel the heat from the curling iron getting a little too close to my ear. “Are you wanting to bond, Izabel?” Her question is laced with sarcasm.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t play that bullshit game. I’m just tired of the silence.”

I see her smile slimly in the reflection of the mirror; steam rises from my hair as she releases it from the curling iron.

“I can see why Victor loves you,” she says.

“Thought you didn’t believe he loves me?”

Her smile spreads. “Oh, I never said that,” she answers. “I believe he loves you, sure, but in what way he loves you is the big mystery. There are many different kinds of love.”

“Victor loves me in the way you think he doesn’t,” I point out, icily. And I know that he does—I don’t question it at all. It just infuriates me that this woman, whatever the hell her name is, thinks she knows Victor better than I do.

“My name is Hestia,” she finally answers, ignoring my rant as if it’s not worth her time refuting. “Apollo is my brother. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Do you really care?” I come back.

She purses her lips, rolling another section of my hair into the hot metal. “Not really,” she answers. “But for the sake of conversation.”

“I might have half brothers and sisters,” I say with a shrug. “Couldn’t really tell you; my real mother had a weak spot for men, and she wasn’t exactly a safe sex kind of woman.”

“Ah, well, most of us wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for women like her—I sure as hell wouldn’t be.” Then she says suddenly, “Why haven’t you asked why you’re here? I’m curious. Not once have you begged me to tell you what this is all about, or tried to reason or bargain with me. Surely you care about that.”

“I’m not gonna beg anybody for anything,” I tell her straightaway. “And it doesn’t take a genius to know the basics of why we’re here. Aside from that whole revenge thing your brother wants, most of it is pretty self-explanatory. It’s the same old story, a typical scenario of vengeance”—I shrug again—“I could ask you for specifics, but I already know you’re not gonna tell me anything you haven’t already told me, so why waste my breath?”

Hestia picks up a bottle of hairspray and presses her finger down on the pump; I shut my eyes to keep out the tiny beads sprinkling my face.

“Well, just so you know,” she says, setting the bottle down, “there’s little typical about this scenario—that I can assure you.”

Her words leave my brain buzzing with questions and worry, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got to me.

The door to Victor’s room creaks open again and closes with an echo. Then I hear the sound of Apollo’s—assuming, anyway—footsteps going over the floor. I come to attention quickly, eager to hear Victor’s voice again. I don’t care what he might say that I won’t like; he can say he never loved me at all and I’d be happy just to hear him, to know that he’s alive—I was beginning to wonder.

But the first voice I hear is Hestia’s, speaking into the mic affixed to the laptop.

“The story of what happened fifteen years ago”—Hestia glances briefly at me—“to our beloved sister, Artemis; I want him to tell it now.” She steps away from the mic and comes back over to me, sits on the seat next to mine; she goes back to curling my hair. “Now listen closely,” she tells me, wrapping another section of hair around the scorching metal. “I want you to have a good understanding of everything before you go back in there.”

I nod, but all I can think about now is knowing I’m going to get to see Victor again, even if it’s the last time…I’m going to see him again.

And that gives me hope.