smokeSCREEN : book6.0

Dear Literotica reader,

Please forgive spelling mistakes and the like – my spell-checker has decided to take an extended vacation, and I'm afraid you and I must suffer for it.

-Riv

* * *

my hurt inside is fading / this shits gone way too far / all this time i've been waiting / oh i cannot breath anymore / for whats insides awaking / i'm not i'm not a whore / you've taken everything and / oh i cannot give any more

* * *

* * *

We grab an O-bag of stuff guaranteed to put you to sleep and head upstairs, pawing each other the whole way.

I wish I wasn't stoned. I hope I'll remember this tomorrow.

We toss the bag at the others, still giggling in their circle of couches and keep right on going.

"Hey, are you guys, um..." and Cat trails off, just before I slam the door to his room behind us. It's dark, except for the light let in by the office windows and he strikes a match for his candle.

For a second he's at the window and I'm still by the door, and we're uneasy. If I go to him, am I being too forward?

No – crossing a room is just crossing a room.

My feet begin moving anyway, and soon I'm beside him. Even while lighting the candle he hasn't looked away, and he wraps an arm around me, slowly as I kiss him again. He clutches me tight, and the kiss becomes slower – longer – wet.

I don't know entirely what to do in this situation – what little I know I've pieced together from a children's book called Where Did I Come From? that my parents showed my older sister when she was six. That along with some pamphlets, some porn and a little masturbation forms my basic understanding of sex. Perhaps 'a little' is the wrong phrase... I used to fantasize about Cypress all the time.

"Hey?" I'm staring at him – we've stopped kissing apparently.

"What?" I ask.

"What're you thinking about?"

"I've never done this before."

Am I nervous? No. Curious. I suppose he is too.

I shove him over to the bed and pull my shirt off – he gives the bra a double-take.

"Like it?"

He takes his shirt off – there's still a bandage on his shoulder, but most of his cuts are healing nicely. I'm very aware of the bandages on my arms now, and the not-quite healed bullet wound in my shoulder.

"Come here," he says, reaching out for me in the dim light. I let him take me by the wrist and draw me to the bed as he sits, reaching up and behind me to fumble with the clasp of my bra.

"Want help?"

"I need practice," he grins, kissing me as he finally gets it.

"Quick learner." I kiss him back and place a finger against his chest, pushing him down onto the bed. I lean over him and kiss his lips – his chin, his chest and his stomach before whispering, "Stay," and kneeling to his boots. I quickly unlace them and pull them from his feet – huh – he's got big feet. His socks come off next, then I stand up and place one my little feet on his thigh.

He unties the bows and helps me out of the Chuck Taylors before I step back and let the skirt drop.

Jesus Christ I'm naked.

"Take your pants off," I tell him, he smiles and stands, unbuckling his belt. He reaches for me but I step just shy of him and raise a hand to my chin, contemplating him. "All the way off," I say. He does, kicking them away and stands completely naked in front of me – he's not wearing underwear. Huh. He's up.

I want to ask if that's all me – if he's thinking about somebody else. I don't. I let a finger graze my breast while I look at him, though. Scarred but strong. Sharp lines – broad shoulders, slim hips, long legs. He reaches for me again and I finally come to him – I'm getting cold.

He folds us into the bed under a soft blanket and wraps his arms around me. Warm and soft but firm and solid, it's like cuddling up with the best teddy bear in the world – he kisses me again, but I have to ask in a whisper,

"You sure there's no one else you'd rather have?"

He thinks about it.

"What the FUCK is your problem?!"

I'm not in the Tower – I'm in my army-surplus bunk bed.

I'm being screamed at, for sleeping late it seems.

The old one doesn't stop shouting as I throw my one outfit on, calling me names.

Worm. Maggot. Slut. Dyke. Walking shit. I look forward to tonight, when I'll be able to sleep again. It's the only pleasure I'm allowed.

I've felt like many different people over the course of my life. I've been a daughter. A confidant. A sister. A mother. A cook. A friend. A doctor. A solider. A killer.

It hasn't occurred to me until this moment what I actually am now.

I'm a whore.

At the moment, I am, and this is my story – but it's not about sex. To be truthful, I know very little of sex – I've never met the man in my dreams.

So far he never touches me.

He just looks.

And it's hard to believe what I've become.

His name is Michael Connor – but everyone calls him Mickey. The man in the black leather mask. He first took a shine to me before the Forks went up. After Crow ran off, he spoke to me. He was nice.

And then, in the scramble afterwards, when they were rounding us up, he made certain I wasn't hurt. And when they took me to him, and he offered me food, I took it willingly. I spoke to him and became comfortable with him. So when he held back food until I showed him my shoulder, I didn't think it was much to risk.

He still doesn't touch me. I stand before him, naked, as his eyes roam.

"I don't think I've ever asked how old you are," he says. He likes talking to me, while he's looking.

"Twen'y," I say, with extra Kenneydean, and the scars that mar his face crease as he grins

"I didn't say it mattered," he nods.

"Yes, Michael," I chime. I'm a trained monkey, now. Pull a lever. Push a button. Get a food pellet.

"Do you enjoy coming here at night?" he asks, finding a cigarette and handing it to me. "Sit," he motions to the chair beside him. I light the cigarette and take greedy drags. Michael doesn't smoke – it's a filthy habit, he tells me.

"Yes, Michael."

"You do enjoy it?"

"Yes, Michael." I keep pushing my hair behind my ears – he's gotten me into the habit. He says he likes to see my face.

"You're a lot smarter than you seem, aren't you?" he says now. I ash my cigarette. He's never asked something like this before. What does he want to hear?

"Yes, Michael."

"And what do you think of me, in your secret thoughts, when you're back in the Hotel at night?" His dark eyes burn in the soft light, and I'm cold. I used to be overconscious of my nudity in front of him, but after a few weeks I didn't care any more.

I just didn't care.

"That I'm happy you favour me, Michael," I say finally.

"You're just telling me what I want to hear," he says.

"That's what you want," I whisper.

"That's not what I want," he says.

"You want to have me?" My eyes shoot up to his. The scars don't bother me any more. We're as comfortable with his disfigurement as we are with my exposed nipples. But he looks away.

"I suppose I would," he nods. "Do you know why I've kept you separate on Washing Day? Why the others are put through all sorts of things while you remain untouched? Simply viewed?"

"You want to make certain I'm... pure."

"Yes – exactly that," he nods. "Exactly that. You are intelligent, aren't you? Brie is still convinced you're basically savages."

"We are, Michael."

"Spread your legs," he tells me. I do.

He'll starve me otherwise.

He tells me I'm beautiful.

I could have been a hero. I could have affected change. I could have been braver at the Forks.

His eyes burn me in the old hotel suite, and I know what I've become.

He tells me to turn around.

He wants to see my back.

"Perfect skin. Perfect curves. Perfect face," he says.

And I hate what I've become.

"The perfect beauty," he tells me.

I hate who I am.

"My perfect Sophie," he whispers.

* * *

Michael is not the man I dreamed about this morning. I can't see that man's face, and I've never been in such a situation, so I pick the dream apart symbolically. Surely, I must be able to offer some insight into myself. But my mind just randomly makes connections.

Crow used to say I have an overactive imagination. She said I think too much.

They're not really thoughts. Just escapes.

I used to daydream that I impressed Michelle. I don't recall what I did to deserve it, but Michelle was proud of me and Crow patted me on the back. Good daydreams.

Lately, I dream of killing Michael. Mickey. Whatever.

They do worse to the others. Sometimes Brie will come into the hotel and select one of us. Last week she took Phoebe. No one was more surprise than her.

So Phoebe's gone.

That leaves thirty of us girls left in the hotel. They have us mending things. I never sewed up something that wasn't alive until they captured us. They use the boys in their auto shop, I think.

But us girls are only good for sewing. Or so Michael says.

Thirty of us. Ten old ones, all armed.

I dream I steal a gun. A big fuck-off Desert Eagle or a nine millimeter with the fifteen round clip. One in the pipe.

He would tell me to take off my shirt, and I would whip the gun out.

There would be a moment – we would finally share a moment.

He would understand that I never wanted him. Never wanted his affection. His praise. His favour. I would have him kill me, rather than feel his eyes on me again.

And as I squeeze the trigger, he would know the best part of his day was the worst part of my life.

The part that gives me nightmares.

And I would squeeze the trigger. Again and again and again until he's just a steaming mass of gore on the scuzzy old hotel carpet. That's for what you did to me. That's for what you did to us. That's for what you want to do.

Eight months.

It's been eight months since I breathed free air.

Eight months since I saw my best friend.

Six months since I thought of stirring rebellion.

Four months since I lost hope of escape.

Now I fantasize about killing Michael. I kill him. The guards hear the shots. They bust in the door, and gun me down. I hit the floor, watch my life flow out in a thick red on the scuzzy hotel room carpet – just adding to the stains – and it's all okay.

Because now I'm free.

And he'll never make me feel like that again.

"Sophie," a whisper comes from the bed under mine. "It's not so bad, huh?" she says.

"Shut up, Diane," Amy snaps a little ways away.

This is how we spend our nights – in little army-surplus bunk beds in a cleaned-out suite.

I don't answer Diane. I feign sleep.

They took Diane once – brought her back because there was something wrong with her.

"I just mean it's not so bad," Diane says again. "We have food. We're warm. We gotta' do a little work every day, but it's not like there's anyone shooting at us."

"Shut the fuck up, Diane," Amy hisses from the other side of the room.

BOOM!

The door blasts open, two women in the doorway.

"Who's talking in here?" one of them shouts.

No one answers.

"WHO is talking?" the other one calls. Amy sits up.

"It was Diane," she says, pointing towards the bunk under mine. At first I expect them to reprimand me, but they give Amy a pack of cigarettes and Diane a concussion. A black eye. A broken collar bone. And they take her away to the infirmary.

I return to my daydreams.

* * *

Two days later, Diane comes up to Amy in the Eating Room, her head bowed.

"You were right to tell them," she says. "I was causing trouble." But Amy just narrows her eyes, and hisses;

"What do you think you're doing now?"

It's been this way pretty much since the beginning. Old Floor relationships aren't the same. Lisa and Michelle were two of the first to be taken by Brie. No one knows where Cat is, and Anze is kept with away from us.

It's like I woke up in a different world.

But it's still reality.

I am not a soldier. I may be a whore.

I am definitely a slave class.

I eat small bites of hard bread and think of justice. Dream of justice.

One day, we will be avenged.

I glance around – the guard is gone.

"Martha," I whisper. She looks from her plate up to me – Martha has really nice dark eyes. "Did you see anything?"

"I didn't look," she whispers harshly back. "Be quiet."

I break another piece of hard bread and munch on it. A half a crust – that was it, today. Glancing at the clock, I know Michael will come for me within the hour.

We'll be cleaning the Eating Room and I'll be called aside.

The woman will take me hard by the arm and drag me to the side, where she'll strip-search me in front of everyone. Then she'll drag me into the elevator.

Fifteenth floor. Ding.

And she'll push me into his room.

"Good evening, Sophie," he'll say.

"Good evening, Michael," I'll say. I know to say.

WHAM! Martha kicks me under the table.

"What?"

"He's calling you," she points behind me, and I turn to see Michael. I bolt to my feet.

He's never early. Why is he early?

I'm so shaken that I don't get rid of the knife I always pocket. I usually toss it aside before the strip search. But they don't search me. They don't touch me. He walks with me to the lobby, and my head is spinning.

This break from routine is unprecedented. What's going on? Does Brie want me? Is he going to kill me? Rape me? Feed me? I hope he has cherries.

"When was the last time you were outside?" he says now, from behind his mask. He doesn't take it off in front of anyone else – not even Brie.

"Five months thirteen days, Michael." No one else can tell, but I know when he smiles under his mask.

"Let's go for a drive," he says.

And as he leads me to a car, he still doesn't have someone search me. He pushes my head down under the roof, and I'm too shocked to smile. Today, I have a knife.

* * *

* * *

// boom / here comes the // boom / ready or not / here comes the boys from the south // boom / here comes the // boom / ready or not / how you like me now? / is that all you got? / i'll take your best shot

* * *

* * *

The last time I was outdoors, the snow had been around for a while. Now it's spring. The long grasses are lush and green – the ruined city of Grand Forks is overrun with a young forest. But we're not in the city long. We drive out, through some grassland and into a forest. I'm riding shotgun – there are two other old ones in the back seat.

He lets me roll down the window, so I can feel the fresh air on my face, and offers me cigarettes.

Soon he stops the car beside a field with a tree in the middle. He instructs the others to stay by the car, and not to disturb us. We walk for ten minutes or so – the tree is farther than it seems, and I realize the grasses are giant – perhaps six fet tall. The tree itself is immense, probably a few hundred years old, and he spreads an old quilted blanket beneath it, before setting out a picnic.

I feel the bark of the tree and smile at the sunlight in my face.

I wish Cypress would have taken me on a nice picnic. Just once.

I decide to get this over with, and stalk over to Mickey, fingering the knife in my pocket. It's just a butter knife – no good for slashing his throat. But one fatal stab, perhaps.

"Look at you," he says, looking up at me from his knees. "You look happy."

I can only smile back;

"I am happy,"

before I stab him in the eye.

He doesn't even look surprised as he falls back, the ugly blood spoiling the pretty quilted blanket.

Funny, I don't feel as good as I thought I would. But he doesn't look surprised. He's still smiling as he spasms, the spike of metal shaking in his eye.

In the long grasses, they couldn't have seen us from the car.

I shove a few strawberries into my mouth and rip open his leather jacket to expose the hand cannon he keeps under his shoulder. A big silver .449 calibre revolver, and the two bandoliers of ammunition wrapped on one of his shoulders.

He sputters as I stand.

He sputters and gurfles – he's trying to breathe.

I thought I'd stabbed him hard enough to get through to the brain, but I pull back the hammer on the revolver and squint down at him over the barrel.

No – he's out. I've got a gun – I can go anywhere as soon as I take care of the two by the car... But I point the gun at his head again.

No – it will alert the others.

I sneak through the tall grass towards them, the big revolver hanging loose in my hand. It's a little lighter than my old Desert Eagles, and even though it's been almost nine months since I handled a piece, it feels familiar. A good balance. Good weight.

They're sitting in the front seat, running the engine, enjoying the air conditioning, and chatting. The windows are closed to seal in the cool air, and they're so involved in their discussion they have no time to react as I pop up in the passenger window, unloading the revolver into the car. It's deafening.

I yank the door open as I reload, but they're already down. I drag the bodies out, and find that one of them is about my size, which satisfies. They've had me in sneakers for the winter, and I've been dying for a pair of good sturdy boots.

As I inventory my new belongings, I find I've become quite wealthy. Perhaps my sense of humor has become macabre through my captivity, but I chat at them as I go;

"Didn't know who you were fuckin' with, did'ja? That's right – we're soldiers – every one of us. Just give us a piece, and we'll fuck you up. Sure, Phoebe and Jessie surrendered to you, back in Winnipeg, but they were just the leaders.

The rest of us are fuckin' savage. And now we've got a revolver. A shotgun. An uzi. Ammo. Lots of ammo. Food. We got food.

Everything's gonna' change," I grin, looking down at my haul.

If I hadn't been so happy, I probably would have noticed Mickey coming up behind me. I don't know what he hits me with, but it does its job – and I'm out.

***

She's choking me.

Crow is choking me. I can't breath. I can't do anything. I can't break away. I can't move my arms. She's hurting my arms.

Everything hurts – but she doesn't stop choking me. I thrash.

I thrash and smack my head against the concrete wall, and wake up.

I realize why I'd been dreaming that.

I'm chained to a wall – two handcuffs hold my wrist above my head, while a solid steel collar tied to the floor holds me down. I've been more comfortable.

Under the single bulb that hangs from the celing, an old one sits, leaning against the far wall. He cradles a rifle, and smiles at me. Sort of.

He doesn't speak. He just stands, knocks on the door, and is let out into the dark beyond.

I wait three minutes or so and start working on an escape. With my head chained down, I can't get any leverage to break the cuffs or the chains that hold them. The walls are just concrete, but I'm not strong enough to pull the bolt that holds the whole assembly to the wall. I decide to think of a more graceful solution.

Squatting there, I wonder how long I'd been asleep for. I wonder what they plan to do with me. Is this the same thing that happened to Michelle, and Lisa and Phoebe?

Or is this some new punishment, devised for my unique and unforseen betrayal?

I grin.

This is gonna' suck.

And so I start crying. I'm still crying when Mickey bursts through the door. He strides quickly forward and leans back, lining up his knuckles before smashing me straight-on in the face. God, he's got a big fist.

I smack against the concrete wall, and the rusty chain that's holding me down cuts my back. It doesn't hurt so bad, but it's bleeding enough for me to feel it flow.

Before I finish swinging, Mickey's gripped my face in one big hand. He pulls me to his scarred grimace;