Plush (26 page)

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, of course. It’s brilliant like everything you do.” His smile is huge: “So, I got the job?” I’ve never seen his face look so happy and pure. I nod. Of course he has to make our music video. I wish there was some kind of brake I could pull to stop me from falling so Marianas-Trench-deep in love. I would pull the brake now. But I feel I’m in too deep, and there’s no way out.

“Hayley, you’ve been my muse since way before I met you. I played along your songs over and over. It’s as if you were singing to me. You understood my soul. Sometimes the perfect song comes on that so completely defines who you are and you feel a little less alone in the cubicle-minded world…”

He squeezes my hand, then pours me more gin. I watch the screen, mesmerized. The video has morphed into color. The violence looks so realistic, too realistic. And the song is so creepy. I mean, it’s a masterpiece, but really fucking dark and twisted. The sister is now all grown-up. She cowers as she squirms in a chair; then she’s being tortured by small dental instruments.

“Who plays your sister Enzo?… Her pain is so real.” For a moment he turns and looks down like he’s shy… “My real sister.” The sister - wow - each tooth is pulled out, one by one, and then her vocal chords. Then her hair is child-dolly cut, and when the knife starts to go to the throat, I scream! “Hayley… it’s just a movie… not real…” Then rocks are poured in an avalanche into her mouth, burying her, suffocating her. The special effects are terrifying.

I take a drink. “That’s more darkness then I’ve ever seen in you.” He brushes my arm with his finger, soft and slow. I’m confused. He’s so creepy, and yet he’s the one I want most.

He: “Darkness and light and all the suffering in between. As an artist you have to be free to explore your dark side without judgment, without fear. Just go.”

59

“Hayley…

this is your death.”

His voice bullet-penetrates deep into me. I’m bound with ropes – white ropes on white skin. They’re tight, cutting off circulation. There’s an animal skull as a ball gag in my mouth, duct-taped around my head. Japanese bondage criss-crosses around my naked, pale body burning into the ropes, into the dark, and into the black of my soul.
BLACK, BLACK, BLACK
. I sweat in my black leather, thigh-high boots; I sweat in the confusion of not knowing what’s going to happen next.

“Hahahahahahahaha.” He’s crazy, loud, and laughing.

“HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

But aren’t all geniuses crazy?

I try to escape but I can’t. I twist so hard, but they’re too tight. I’m not sure if this is what I want, but the ropes of life have brought me here, burning in desire and pain and out of control. I’m out of control.

He’s in control. Enzo’s long, Bowie knife kisses my neck softly and moves down, down, down my chest, circling around my nipples – they’re hard even though it’s hot. It’s 90-degrees or 108-degrees and getting hotter and hotter. The blade on my flesh isn’t deep, just enough pressure so I know it’s there. “Are you ready to go down the rabbit hole with me?” He smiles. A tear comes down. But this will be our masterpiece. I nod my head, though I’m not sure if I mean ‘yes.’

“You need to trust me, Hayley.” I don’t know if I do. But I do love him. I love his art, and his mind, and his heart.    No matter how hard I twist, I can’t break free. This is how I deal with everything. His camera is whirring and clicking, moving all over my body. The camera in one hand, blade in the other. “Don’t worry… I’m playing with the depth of field… Only the background is in focus …” I’m not sure if I believe him…

There is only one blinding spotlight in my eyes; the rest of the tent is pitch black. And the smoke machine puffs away like a dragon.
Heat, heat, heat
. Our song plays loud, the beat thrusting hard and deep into my eardrums, drowning out all other sounds. Then his voice cuts through again:

“You know, Hayley… You’re nothing without me….” He pushes the knife a little into my nipple. I try to scream, but can only wince in pain. He’s not deep but deep enough.

“You will only be great because of me… You know your brother was the one with the talent…” My heart sinks. I can’t hold back the tears. This is my fear. “But with me… you are a queen.” I nod and I know it’s true. Without Enzo, I’m a failure, a sham of an artist. Without him I’m incomplete, a gaping hole.

His hand grasps my throat and he serpent-tongues my lips, parting them a little more around the skull. He clenches my throat tighter and tighter; I almost can’t breath, but just enough space is left for me to get a little bit of oxygen in. I’m starting to feel tingly between my legs. “What a pretty little throat you have… You know that’s the only thing you’ve got going for you: your looks. You’re almost hot…” I know. I’ll never be as beautiful as I want. His hand grabs my stomach and twists. “You still got a little weight to lose, you know… Maybe you should have thrown up your breakfast before the shoot.” This is fucked up, horrible. Wait… I thought we were going - I don’t know what I thought. But not this.

He hangs the camera on a chain, and it swings like a pendulum - tick-tock; life eats you up. It’s rigged to point down, and it’s filming me, moving every time he touches it, bumps it, and adjusts it. Through the smoke, the pounding music, and the heat - all the heat - I see he’s holding a big, dark, crimson-cocoa-blood pie. “You should eat this, you fat bitch.” He takes a big bite, knowing that I don’t eat much, knowing that I’m fucking hungry, and that I’m fucking starving myself. He knows that I hate my body. He knows that the only thing I like about it is when he’s inside me.

He pushes aside the skull and I want to scream, but the song is too loud for anyone to hear. He shoves a whole slice in my mouth and rubs cream, like meringue clouds, on my chest. I can’t think; I don’t think. He chews and spits it in my face. His fat, lizard-tongue licks it off. The blade shaves away the white puffs from my tits. He sucks in my tongue. I surrender tremors of everything. Give in. I give in. My body shakes in fear and in lust - all I want is him. I wish he’d untie me and we could just fuck like normal. This is too much, too far. He pushes the skull back in my mouth and kisses each cheek.

“You don’t need these… These are ruining the view.”
Ka-ching, rip, scream
. His knife slashes off my baby-pink underwear so fast -
blur, pain
- and he pulls the halves off like pedals, leaving only the raw bud.

“You know you like it.” And I know he’s right. He puts his pinky around my pussy in circles and circles, and my eyes close. I’m falling off the cliff, and I want him. Black waves crash inside. I’m melting water, wanting. He shoves his long middle-finger in me hard-fast. “You’re wet, you slut… dripping all over the chair,” all over the black leather chair.

He slaps my face too hard, and the wetness from down there is spread onto my cheek. I feel the burn of his hand even though it’s gone. This is going too far. I’m scared. There’s thunder in my gut. I don’t know what I’m doing here and why I like this, and I never meant to become someone like this. I’m one of those girls, twisted and fucked-up. Why did I take a drink before this? I had to face his camera. But I’m tied up now. And this? This is not right.

I am not ok.

“Like a little girl. So wet and tight. Almost makes up for your lack of breasts.” He bites my other nipple, the one he didn’t cut, and I scream into the skull. But no noise comes out, no noise, no nothing.

Nothing. Nothing is what I am and is what I’ll always be. He’s so right. And he’s breaking me even though I’m already broken. In a million pieces. Everywhere. My broken pieces are mixing with his broken pieces. We’re lost forever in the jigsaw of each other.

He holds the Bolex now and sits on my lap, shoving against my gut. I can feel through his pants that he’s hard. If he wasn’t so intense, so brilliant, maybe I wouldn’t find myself surrendering again and again, and forgetting my morals, and forgetting where I stand.

Is this art? Is this what actors feel like? Do they trust their directors like this? Do they surrender so completely to whatever the visionary wants? Enzo pulls my hair just how I like it; my back arches. I want it, but I don’t want to want it. He pulls my head further and further back; he’s a Milky Way galaxy of white, hungry arms. “You’re a shitty songwriter.” That’s the last straw. I sob, tears flowing like waterfalls over ancient ruins, breaking apart and crumbling down my face. He loves it… He’s holding that fucking camera and it’s
whirring
and he’s filming me close, close, close, capturing all my pain tears and fears. Is this how it’s supposed to feel?

my greatest, fucking fear
,

is to be a bad artist

who makes meaningless shit that nobody cares about and to die bored and normal in oblivion without anyone to love me. If I’m not great, if I’m not a genius, then I’m just a bad person and none of these horrible decisions, Jack’s death, none of it, is justified. But Enzo,

he can fix me

and he reads my mind. He licks my forehead and softly pushes my hair out of my face, all while the camera goes right up to my eye. The spot light is so blinding. The black tent is so hot. Our song is so loud. My voice is so perfect. It will be beautiful, I know. I know. I know. This suffering will be worth it.

“You know I understand you. You know I can save you. You know I’m the only one who knows you, who knows what you need, what you want, how to give you everything: to make you a star, a genius, with me.” He moves off my lap and I don’t know where he’s going and I don’t know if this is over. All of this for art, for a music video. I have to go there. I can’t fail, not after the last album. And I know his art is beautiful, so beautiful. Genius. I’m losing whatever innocence I had left.

I feel the rope from my legs go. I’m so lost in the black of it all. He shoves my legs open. No, he can’t fucking film this. I want to scream to stop. This is too far.
THIS IS TOO far.
He ties a scarf over my eyes; I can’t see anything now; I just feel the heat of his palm and hear the camera whirling and clicking. What the fuck is he filming?
This is not what I want. This is not what I want. Please somebody
stop this.
People are right outside the tent, but nobody can hear me scream. The music is too loud. The speakers are too big. They’re drowning the outside world out. No one will stop this. On my own fucking ranch, a whole fucking crew is right outside - hair, makeup, manager, band - and not one person knows I am dying in here.

He’s on my lap again, straddling me. He undoes the duct tape, ripping it off around my head. The skull comes out of my hungry mouth. And his tongue wraps around and my tongue. And I’ve never wanted him so much. And I’ve never hated him so much. And
our tongues twist in this storm of each other, trying to grasp hold of our strange, violent, impure love
.

What does this all mean? And why do I love him more than I’ve ever loved anybody?

Why am I so fucked up? His hands go down my chest and I want it. I want it. We are deep in caves of desire. He pulls away his mouth and starts to suck on my tits, pushing them together. The camera is whirring, I start to moan. His hand flashes over my mouth: “You better shut your mouth, Hayley… No one can find out… No one can know… Just like your daddy’s friend.” How the fuck did he know about that? Only Jack knew that.

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO,
don’t go back to that night. No, don’t go into the darkness, little Hayley the mouse. The mouse is coming - no, no, no, no darkness. Don’t turn into the mouse. The mouse. All I can see is his sister in the video. Fuck. Was that real? I think I’m going to die. I’m going to die like her in the video. This is it. I am falling off the map of myself. I don’t know where I am anymore or how to stop this path or how to find the light. I want to scream. I want to die. I want to forget everything. I FUCKING HATE you, ENZO.

I HATE you for TURNING ME INTO THIS.

I HATE you for MAKING ME LOVE YOU.

I HATE you for MAKING ME WANT THIS, AND I CAN’T STOP MYSELF FROM

ALL THIS WANTING AND ALL THIS DEATH.

I WANT HIM OFF ME!

His pants unzip. I start to yell - but he covers my mouth. “If you wanna live, then you won’t yell ever again. Now let’s try this one more time.” His hand slides off my mouth - sweaty, metallic bugs trashing on the heater - and slaps me again. I need to be good. I need to play by his rules so I can leave. I whisper-beg-plead “Enzo… no. You can’t do this. I don’t want this. Please, stop. I say no. No more. Let me go. I don’t want to be filmed. We aren’t making some crazy, slasher porn. STOP NOW.” His mouth is in mine, and he’s inside, and I’m wet, and I instantly cum all over his cock, and I can’t help myself, and he fucks me harder and harder, and I’m moaning and sucking his tongue, and I hear the camera, and I’m so fucking humiliated, and I hate him, and I’ve never been so turned on, and I’m gone, gone, gone into something I didn’t mean to be.

Clouds turn loose, rolling over mountains, and consuming the world. Black-night-burning stars in my skin burn my heart with him. Claws and animal paws are scratching at my neck, drawing my blood. Bees crawl on my lips, all over my face. He tears me apart. I can’t help but want more again, and again, and again,

Then it’s over.

I’m untied. He throws a robe on me. The camera stops.

He turns away like I’m nothing, like I’m no one, like he doesn’t even love me. He turns away like my mother did to the storm of her family. He turns away like I did to Carter. He turns away, reloads the camera. Checks his light meter.

I walk out. I want to run to the house. I want to run away from my life. I catch Annie looking at me, then glaring at Enzo. She knows. She knows. She hates him. He hates her. I hear Annie yelling at him not to push me too hard and Enzo says, “I know just how hard to push.” He does. He knows how to push all my fucking buttons. And I’m dying. I see Camila’s Alpha Romeo pull in, and out she rolls with my two kids on leashes. Annie tries to soothe me with her cool voice, telling me that she took them to the zoo, and it was crowded. Blah, blah, blah. Okay.