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.