In the pitch blackness, the stomping of Ari’s bloody feet on the cement drove her forward into the unknown. Anywhere was better than where she had been. The torrent of blood flowing through every vein reminded her she was still alive. For now. Then, much like a lighthouse beckoning her through a perfect storm, she saw the light in the distance—a glimmer of hope until slicing pain hit her like a machete. Her hands tore—no, clawed—at her skin as if it were wrapping paper and her lungs were a treasured Christmas gift. Her nails sliced a gaping yawn into her chest and air escaped her lungs like a punctured balloon. Freedom? The narcissistic cackle returned. The voice of her tormentor pierced her eardrums as a levee of hope cracked and sent her tumbling forward. She didn’t dare to look back at her impending death.
An onslaught of electricity jolted Ari awake and charred her bound breasts until her body leaped from the bed in a shriek. What little hope she had was a mere dream, though it was still hell, just like her reality. The only difference was not being chained to electrodes wired to her tender bits. Again, the evil bitch cranked up the juice, searing another blaze of angry energy to her nipples. Reality wore a gruesome mask of BDSM. This was not an exchange of power. This was torture.
As if on cue, Lady Katrina’s voice bid her a good morning. “Rise and shine, our little starlet. That must have been some dream you were having. Those delicious cries for help were a hit with your fan base. Which, by the way, has increased while you were sleeping, my dear. You are, by far, our most popular performer yet.”
Ari directed her attention toward Lady Katrina’s voice, which came from the left camera. The red light hindered her ability to focus as her pupils adjusted in the dark. That vile voice ratcheted her anger each time it met her ears. “Fuck you! You sick, twisted bitch!”
The venom-laced cackle filled the room again, prompting Ari’s hands to her ears as if barricading the holes so blood couldn’t ooze from her head.
When the wicked sound came to a halt, Ari heard her tormentor say, “Oh, Ariel, my dear. You do make me laugh. I appreciate the sentiment. Unfortunately, I will not be the one who is fucked, my darling. That honor goes to you.”
Silence followed. Then darkness.
Again, left alone to sizzle under the brutal current of electricity that coursed through her flesh. Hours had passed to countless days. It was hard to determine how long she had been captive. At least in the darkness, there was a sense of privacy. Ari humored herself, telling her mind that no one watched her urinate. No one watched her tears. No one saw her chances of survival dwindle.
The idea of death felt more like a reward than a punishment. It was freedom from her torments. The rapid churning of her brain would cease into the stillness she craved—preferred—over the senseless chaos of her life. Ari wished for death. Expiration at the wretched hands of a grim reaper named Lady Katrina.
Light filled the room. It wasn’t the red glow. This time, accompanied by the hum of a dying ballast, a light flickered as phosphorus particles danced to life inside a fluorescent tube above.
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